Twice Weldon repeated over the substance of his
despatches and his instructions regarding their destination. The
despatches were slipped between the layers of his shoe-sole, the cut
stitches were replaced, and Weldon rose to his feet.
"My nigger has come from Naauwpoort, bringing me a fresh mount," he
said then. "May I take him with me?"
"What is he?"
"A Kaffir."
"From where?"
"Piquetberg Road."
"Can you trust him?"
Weldon's eyes met the eyes of the General steadily. "As I would
trust myself," he answered.
Five minutes later, Weldon passed out of the tent door. At his
quarters, he dismounted and went in search of a blanket. Muffled in
the thick folds, the horses' feet would make no sound on the hard-
baked earth. Kruger Bobs, meanwhile, went out to reconnoitre in
order to discover a possible gap in the line of Boer pickets.
The pickets once passed, Weldon mounted once more and, with Kruger
Bobs following close behind, rode carefully away into the inky,
drizzling night. For the first hour, he rode steadily and with
comparative comfort. The excitement of the battle was still in his
blood, its noises ringing in his head, its sights dancing like will-
o'-the-wisps before his eyes.
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