But something she must do. She would walk on till she came to a Boer farmhouse, and get them to take her in for the night. Then she would get a horse and return to the camp in the morning. Perhaps she might even chance on some English people, seeing that she was in an English colony and one loyal to the Queen. That there were rebels there it was true, but not on that side of the river. Having a wholesome dread of their foes at close quarters, they would not dare to cross. So far, then, she felt safe; what she needed was food and shelter. Kilting up her riding skirt she went forth in the fast-gathering darkness in search of them. It was weary work plodding over the loose sand, and after the first quarter of a mile she was quite worn out. It seemed as though she would have to pass the night on the open veldt. Then it occurred to her that if she shouted some one might hear and come to her rescue. And if by chance she did fall into the hands of the enemy they would surely treat her kindly. Whatever his faults, the Boer was too religious to be wholly a scoundrel. Assistance she must have, so straightway she hollowed her hands and shouted through them. Her long, shrill cry pierced the air time after time, but there was no response. The echo died away and the quiet shut down again, and she heard the desert talking to itself--the faint murmur of the wind rustling over the sand, the gurgle of the river, and at times the wail of a solitary bird. Again and again he shouted with a courage born of despair. All was silent, silent as the grave. Then a sound fell upon her ears. It came nearer and nearer until it took shape and defined itself as the steady gallop of a horse. For a moment she was afraid; but luckily she had with her a small but serviceable revolver which Harold made her carry. She drew it from her belt. She was prepared to use it if necessary against an enemy; even against herself. But perhaps it was some well-meaning and kindly Boer, or, better still, an Englishman. She resolved to risk attracting his attention. Anything was better than a night alone on that desolate waste. Taking her courage in both hands, she cried again, and the galloping of the horse was now close upon her. Then a man's voice shouted. She replied and ran forward to meet her preserver, as she prayed he might prove to be. Already she thanked God for her deliverance. She came up close with him, and peered anxiously through the lowering light to take in his features. Instantly she recognized them. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she did so. Those features she knew only too well; there was no mistaking that stalwart figure. That it should be he of all men!--Waldo van Zwieten!