"
The General lowered his glasses. Covered with dust, and breathless,
Weldon was before him.
"Mount every available man, and gallop to the scene of action!"
Orderlies carried the command to the different regiments. Before the
mounted men could start, the infantry were half-way to the guns. But
already shells were falling into the camp, telling every man that
the guns were in the hands of the Boers.
In the forefront of the remainder of his squadron, Weldon found
himself borne onward in the rush, straight from the camp to the
right flank of the guns. The broncho's swinging trot had long since
changed to a gallop, and her eyes were flashing with the wicked
light of her old, unbroken days, as she went tearing across the sun-
baked veldt, up and down over the rises and through the rare bits of
thicket at a pace which Weldon would have been powerless to check.
He had no mind to check it. The crisp air, full of ozone and warmed
by the sun, set his cheeks to tingling with its impact. A true
rider, he let his mood follow the temper of his horse and, like a
pair of wild things, they went bolting away far towards the head of
the squadrons.
And always the firing of the guns grew nearer and faster and more
murderous.
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