Again the General's keen
glance was on them both; then it concentrated itself upon the
younger man.
"I am ready," he answered to its unspoken question.
"You are sure you are fit? It is forty miles, and the rain will be
on us inside of an hour."
"It makes no difference."
As he spoke, Weldon felt himself surveyed from hat to shoelace.
"Very well. Get yourself fed, and come to my tent in an hour. It
will be better to wait until dusk before starting, for these hills
are infested with Boers. Do you know the country?"
"Partly. I can learn the rest."
"You need a remount."
Weldon stroked the little gray broncho.
"If I had my own horse. Otherwise, I prefer this. I can trust her,
even if she is tired."
Again the glance swept him over, beginning at the boyish face,
resolute and eager beneath its streaks of red-brown dust. Then, as
Weldon saluted, the General turned and rode away, with the Captain
at his side.
"You've the making of a man there, Captain Frazer," was his sole
comment.
Weldon, meanwhile, was allowing the little gray broncho to pick her
own dainty way out of the shambles about her feet. Then, once free
from the litter of men and horses, he turned her head to the spot
where, he had been told, his squadron were gathering together their
diminished forces.
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