"Mine, too?"
But already the boy was forgotten. Weldon was following hard on the
heels of the sentry who had dashed through the gate in the
churchyard wall.
Four o'clock the next morning, that darkest hour which, by its very
darkness, heralds the coming dawn, found C. Squadron moving out from
the gray-walled churchyard, their faces set towards the eastern
mountains. All night long they had stood under arms, ready for the
attack which might be at hand. By dawn, they were well on their way
towards the laager, fifteen miles distant, whence had come the
scouting hand of Boers who, for two days past, had made leisurely
efforts to pick off their scattered sentinels. At the head of the
little troop rode Frazer. Behind him and as close to his heels as
military law allowed, came Weldon, mounted on the same little black
horse which had so often carried him to the hunt at home. Horse and
rider both sniffed the chilly dawn with eager anticipation. Each
knew that something was in store for them; each contrived to impress
upon the other his determination to make a record, whatever
happened. For one short minute, Weldon let his strong hand rest on
the satiny neck.
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