Within, the whole place was dense with smoke. Brenda, in obedience to her husband's orders, was lying flat on the floor beside the sofa. She gave up all for lost, but determined she would not be taken alive. She was only waiting until her husband fell. In the midst of it all she could discern Van Zwieten. Rifles were useless now. It was hand to hand work. The end was near. There, in the little room, Harold stood with three of his men beside him. The others were either dead or dying. But the Boers had got off by no means cheaply. At least twenty of them had been done for. The four Englishmen, with their backs to the wall, fought on, using revolver, muzzle and butt-end, until at last their cartridges gave out, and they threw down their weapons with a curse and surrendered. There was nothing for it. Van Zwieten gave vent to a yell of triumph. His men threw themselves on Burton. But the Englishman was too quick for them. He stepped back quickly and levelled his revolver. He had one chamber loaded. "I have just one left," he said hoarsely "stand up to it, Van Zwieten, for I am keeping it for you!" "Finish him, men!" roared the Dutchman. "No, no," cried Brenda, and before a man could move she had flung her arms around her husband and stood between him and them. "The last shot, dear, is for me!" she said. There was a pause. They held back. Harold never flinched. His wife clung to him desperately. His face was streaming with blood from the graze of a bullet. But he was determined to make good use of that last shot. Beside Van Zwieten stood a huge man with a white, flowing beard. At last the Dutchman made a dash forward and attempted to take Brenda from her husband's arm. "You are mine," he cried madly, "mine! You shall not die!" "Coward!" hissed Burton, "take your lead like the dog you are!" He fired. But she, struggling to free herself from the Dutchman's grasp, fell heavily against his right arm and spoilt his aim. The bullet whizzed overhead. He threw down his weapon and prepared for the worst. He put her behind him. Sobbing, she fell on her knees and clasped her arms around his legs. She felt for her revolver that she might be sure of death when he died. "Fire!" rang out from Van Zwieten. "Spare the woman, kill the man!" Two Boers levelled. But the old man with the white beard rushed forward and struck them aside. They fell wide. "Hold!" he cried, "let no man fire!" "Damn you, Piet Bok, what do you mean?" asked Van Zwieten, savagely. "Ah! Piet Bok!" cried Harold, seeing a chance of life and of saving his wife, "I am your prisoner again. I yield to you." "Fire, men!" shouted Van Zwieten. "Fire, I tell you!" He was seething with rage at the fear lest his prey was going to escape him. Then turning to the old man he said, "Piet Bok! this is my business!"