Of his own condition he took no heed. It was all in
the game. He would play the game out as long as he could; but his
last move should be, as his first had been, strictly according to
rule. Meanwhile, for two facts he was at a loss to account. Dawning
was still hours distant. Nevertheless, the darkness before him was
blotted and blurred with alternating waves of blue and gray. The
veldt was empty; yet, above the roar of the rain around him, an odd
purring sound was in his ears. Then everything lost itself in his
determination not to allow the saddle to slip from between his tired
knees.
He roused himself at the challenging voice of a picket.
"Despatches for General Kekewich," he answered, in a voice which
seemed to his own ears to have come from miles away.
"Advance and give the countersign."
Irritably he gathered himself together.
"I can't, I tell you. I don't know your blasted countersign. I've
despatches from Dixon to General Kekewich. Take me to him at once."
The colloquy lasted for moments, in a drawn battle of determination.
Its stimulus had waked Weldon from his lethargy; it had also waked
again that fierce and throbbing pain below his knee.
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