"I want my officer," he yelled. "Where the h.e.l.l's my blanked officer?

I want to blow his blanked brains out."

"But see; your pistol isn't loaded," said McShane, in the quietest way.

The fellow stared, struck all of a heap by the idea, and, holding up the weapon to his eyes, began examining it in the dim flickering light. In a moment it was s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand by the intrepid Irishman who repelled his immediate onslaught with a blow in the chest, which sent him staggering back half-a-dozen paces, and before he had recovered his balance he was seized by the bystanders and firmly held.

"And why the divil didn't some of ye do that before?" asked McShane, wrathfully. "Why, he might have blown up the whole camp while a dozen of ye were standin' thur open-mouthed. Is it afraid of him ye were?"

The men looked sheepish, and muttered something about "were just going to" as they secured the arms of their fallen comrade, who lay on the ground still raving and cursing.

"Just going to, were ye!" cried the irascible doctor. "It'd serve ye right if he'd blown half your heads off. Now take him away. Don't knock the poor divil about, Saunders," he added, noticing a disposition to use the prisoner roughly.

They marched off the erring Flint, who had subsided suddenly, and became quite rational again; but it would not do to let him get abroad that night, so he was kept under arrest.

"Who's that fellow?" said Jim. "If he belonged to my corps I'd bundle him out, sharp."

"Yis; it's bad enough havin' such a chap in it as Jack Armitage. He's a handful in himself, bedad."

"Well, I'm going to turn in," said Naylor. "Any one going my way?"

"Yis; hould on," replied the doctor--and there was a general move made.

Now and then a burst of laughter came from one of the tents, which, like this one, had been holding festival; but for the rest the camp was in slumbrous quiet, only disturbed by the occasional challenge of sentry, or the footfall of such loiterers as these our friends.

"Jim," said Claverton, the last thing as he bade him good-night, "I've made up my mind about that offer of yours."

"You'll take it?"

"Yes."

In the morning, who should turn up but Hicks and some twenty others, whose restless spirits would not allow them to remain quiet at home; and later in the day two more troops of burghers from the Western districts.

And the available forces being thus strengthened, it was resolved that a forward move should take place at once.

Claverton's swarthy followers growled considerably at losing their chief, whom, in the short time he had been with them, they had already began to look up to and respect. Lumley, especially, put his discontent into words.

"Always the way," he grumbled. "Directly you get a fellow you pull well with--off he goes."

"But, Lumley; you'll be in command yourself now, don't you see?"

Lumley evidently didn't see, for this side of the question now burst upon him with a new light.

"Don't know. They're sure to keep me out of it," he growled, but as if he thought the contingency not an unmixed evil. And the fact was, his late chief thought the same.

So Claverton, with the faithful Sam as body-servant, entered upon his new rank of Field-Captain in "Brathwaite's Horse," _vice_ Philip Garnier resigned.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"SUMMER HAS STOPPED."

"No, it's of no use, old fellow. But look as much as you like, that's everybody's privilege. Deuced pretty girl, isn't she?"

"Well, yes, now you mention it--that is, I think so."

"Now I mention it! That's good. Of course it was all piety, pure and simple, that trundled such a hardened reprobate as your redoubtable self into church on Sunday evening; an inst.i.tution you, I make bold to say, have not patronised since the days of your downy youth. And, of course, it was by the merest accident that you happened to find a seat not far from the beautiful Miss Strange within that same tabernacle.

Furthermore, it is purely accidental that she should be on one side of the street this morning, and you staring at her from the other. No, old boy. In the words of the poet, it won't wash," ironically concludes the first speaker.

A crowd has a.s.sembled in High Street to-day to witness the pa.s.sage through Grahamstown of a body of men _en route_ for the seat of war, and, for the time being, those who can do so, leave their shop, or store, or office, to come and look at this fresh batch of defenders, and give them a good, hearty cheer as they file away up the King Williamstown road. Those who have time and inclination to do so, make their way along the said road to the point where the band, which, discoursing inspiriting music, precedes the intending warriors, will cut adrift from them, and where some of the honest townsmen will, in the fulness of their hearts, air their rhetoric in speeches of an encouraging order as they weep over their martial brethren. And among those a.s.sembled at this point, to witness the ceremonial, is Payne and his household, and merged in the crowd about thirty yards away stand our two speakers.

"Bosh, Chadwick," answers the b.u.t.t of the good-humoured raillery.

"Can't a fellow look at a girl without your trying to evolve a 'case'?"

The other laughs light-heartedly. He is a young fellow of five-and-twenty--slight, fair, and of middle height. His companion is ten years older, and exactly his opposite in personal appearance.

"A fellow can do anything he likes in that line--at least, a fellow like yourself can," he replies. "But in this instance I fancy not. She's booked, my good friend--booked as deep as the Dead Sea--and you haven't a chance. You're a day late for the fair."

The elder man frowns slightly, which to conceal he half turns away.

"Who's the fortunate individual?" he asks, carelessly, with a sneer.

"A man named Claverton. He's away at the front now, and the fair Lilian is looking forward to the time when he shall come back 'crowned with Triumph's flushing honours.' I deeply sympathise; but, barring the friendly thrust of an a.s.segai, or the good offices of a peripatetic pot-leg discharged from the blunderbuss of the n.o.ble savage, you haven't a chance. Not even then, for, from all accounts, I don't think she'd let go the shadow of the departed Claverton in favour of the substance of even such a fascinating dog as Ralph Truscott. It is with grief that I say so."

"It is with grief that I find myself constrained to listen to your maundering bosh. Now shut up for a moment, Chadwick, because I can't talk amid the infernal din of this tin-kettle band."

Shrill shrieks of laughter, much chatter, and some vituperation, drown their voices as the ragged portion of the crowd--slatternly Hottentot women and impish dust-coloured brats--fall back precipitately before the advancing _cortege_. Big drum puffs up the hill letting off a worthy sense of the importance of the event in well-timed whacks l.u.s.tily laid on; and red in the face, hot and breathless, and with loving thoughts of that cool brandy and soda awaiting their return at the "Masonic Hotel"

bar, the gallant musicians do their utmost to render with effect the cheery quick-step march destined to invigorate the pilgrimage of their brethren, going--as one of the orators subsequently puts it--to defend "their 'arths, 'omes, and haltars." Then a halt is called, and, after some speech-making, the guard of honour--formed by a detachment of volunteer infantry--lining the road, presents arms, as the band strikes up the National Anthem, and the cavalcade of tough-looking, sunburnt men, two hundred and sixty strong, rifle on hip, and mounted on wiry, serviceable nags, files past, two deep, between the open ranks, and everybody feels exuberantly patriotic, and hoorays, and waves hats and handkerchiefs accordingly.

"Good compact lot of men, that," is Payne's verdict, as he watches the retreating burghers somewhat wistfully, for he is tired of hanging about the town, as he calls it, and would fain go to the front, only just at present he cannot. His wife detects the wistful expression, and rejoins mischievously:

"Yes. If anything, a trifle smarter than your old corps, George."

"Not a bit of it," says Payne, stoutly. "But--I forgot--you never saw it. They were all away, and in the field, before I got back from looking after you womenfolk. As it was, you did me out of half the fun."

"Of course. Look, Lilian. There's such a handsome man over there, who has done nothing but stare at you. He almost seems as if he knew you."

Lilian is gazing after the retreating troop. It is little more than a fortnight since she bade farewell to her lover in the grey dawn, and now she is thinking that in three or four days that body of mounted men will be his camp-fellows; for the forces in the field have been concentrated for a combined movement. She has heard from him more than once--long, cheerful, tender letters, written during hours s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hard-earned sleep, and despatched as opportunity served--rough scrawls, indeed, as was inevitable from the lack of appliances, and even of a knowledge of what time there would be to finish in--but to her so precious. And to-day, as she stands here gazing up the road, with a soft love-light in her eyes reflecting the burden of her own reverie, it is no wonder that the beautiful figure in the cool summer dress, with the dark, straight, patrician features, attracts many a look of admiration from several in the crowd. She starts, and softly twirling the handle of the open sunshade resting upon her shoulder--a pretty trick of hers when absent-minded--follows the direction of Annie Payne's gaze. And a sudden flush suffuses her cheek, and fades, leaving it deathly white. Her glance is riveted to the spot, and it seems as if she must fall to the ground beneath the suddenness of the shock, for she gazes upon a face which she had never expected to look upon again in life. No, it could not be. He was dead, she had heard it for certain.

It could not be. It must be a likeness--a marvellously startling one-- but still a likeness. But on this point she is prevented from rea.s.suring herself, for the owner of the face has turned, and is walking away through the crowd.

"Hallo!" says Payne, and it seems as if he was talking inside her brain.

"There's Truscott."

"Who?" inquires his wife.

"Truscott. A man I met in the town yesterday. He was asking a lot about the war. Says he wants to raise a corps or something. That's him--that tall fellow walking away."

His wife manifests no further interest in the stranger, but with ready tact begins to talk about other things. Poor Lilian's agitation has not escaped the kind-hearted little woman, who would rather die than do anything to increase it, as they return home. And Lilian, if she had a doubt before, Payne's words have mercilessly dispelled it; and now she understands the foreboding of evil which came over her at the sight of the spy following them at King Williamstown for an unerring instinct leads her to connect that incident with the one of to-day. Her heart seems made of lead within her, and daring the walk home she hardly speaks, and even then at random. Even good-natured Payne notices it, but puts it down to the remembrances called forth by the sight of a number of men going to the war; but the remembrances called forth are, in fact, of a very different nature. They go back to a time when she was light-hearted and happy, and without a care or anxiety in the world; then to a time of love and trust succeeded by blank, bitter disappointment; to a hard, uphill struggle for daily bread, alone, uncheered and unaided. Still her memory carries heron, over afresh start in a sunny new world, free, indeed, all but for one shackle which the captive herself had riveted. Then a period of brief, contraband happiness, and long years of a kind of living death; the fetter falls off and she is free, and then the cup of life is full--full to overflowing. These are some of the memories which the sight of that face in the crowd calls forth. Yet, why should she dread? What can harm her, secure as they are in each other's love--a love which has been tried, as by fire, and has come out brighter and more beautiful from the flame? Yet an unaccountable foreboding is upon her--a dread, chill presentiment of evil to come.