The fence round the house was made of stone, and the Boers took advantage of this as cover, whilst some of them sheltered behind the trunks of the red gums. Even then the besieged had the advantage, for they were protected by the walls of the farmhouse, and could shoot without exposing themselves. To Van Zwieten, the disappointment of not having succeeded in shooting Harold in the first dastardly attack was very great. Had their leader been killed, he imagined that the soldiers would have surrendered, quite forgetting that it was not the custom of Englishmen to yield to anything but death. Now, however, there was nothing for it but to take the place before relief could arrive. By all his gods he swore that Brenda should be his.
Mrs. Burton herself remained in the sitting-room, revolver in hand. Far from being afraid, the girl, much to her own surprise, was filled with the terrible joy of battle; indeed, she was in the highest spirits. The Boers fired at the windows and wherever they saw a puff of smoke. As the bullets sang, and the smell of powder became stronger, Brenda could hardly contain her excitement. The Boer woman was on her knees in a back room praying with all her might that the accursed rooineks would be taken and killed. Her husband and sons were with the armies of the Republic, and her whole heart was with her countrymen outside. How gladly, had she dared, would she have opened the door to them!
Harold ordered his men to reserve their fire. His aim was not so much to score a victory as to hold the house until help arrived. On their side the enemy were equally careful, and the fight progressed but slowly. There were thirty Boers, more or less, and of these three were already dead, while two were wounded. Of those in the house only the man shot under the white flag was dead. Van Zwieten, looking anxiously over the plain, fearing every moment to see some sign of the British advance, cursed the slowness of the affair. At last he picked some men and sent them round to try and get at the horses of the besieged; but Harold had got them under shelter in a shed, with five men in front to guard them. The Boers creeping round the corner were met by a volley which killed four and wounded two. They fled swearing, and Captain Burton rejoiced.
Reserve your fire, men! We shall hold out after all!
By Heaven we will, sir! one of the men answered. "We'll fight to the last rather than an English lady should fall into the hands of these dirty rascals. Ho! Give 'em beans, you beggars!"
And this the beggars in question proceeded to do.
Then Van Zwieten sent forward a dozen men on to the verandah with a rush. Their advance was covered by a steady fire from the rear, though not one of the besiegers showed himself. Simultaneously another body attacked the back shed wherein the horses were housed, and in spite of the British fire succeeded in effecting their entrance to the yard. Then they rushed the shed, which was an open one. Two Englishmen fell, and there was no one to fill their places, for their comrades were fighting desperately on the verandah in front.
Van Zwieten, seeing his advantage, led the remainder of his force to the other side of the house, where there was a wide window. It opened into the room where the Boer woman was kneeling. She flung open the shutters. Van Zwieten jumped in, followed by half-a-dozen of his men, and the first those within knew of it was when they found themselves attacked in the rear. They right about faced, put their backs to the wall, and fought like men. Then, as a reward for her treachery, a stray bullet pierced the brain of the Boer woman.
Meanwhile, the men who forced entrance into the yard were steadily gaining ground. But hearing the firing within the house they turned back by the front again, in order to come to the rescue of their comrades. The party on the veranda broke through the door and hurled themselves forward. Boer after Boer fell before the British fire, for Harold had now concentrated his men--what there were left of them. Gradually he was driven back to the sitting-room. A shout of triumph from outside announced that those who had remained had succeeded in capturing the horses.
Within, the whole place was dense with smoke. Brenda, in obedience to her husband's orders, was lying flat on the floor beside the sofa. She gave up all for lost, but determined she would not be taken alive. She was only waiting until her husband fell. In the midst of it all she could discern Van Zwieten. Rifles were useless now. It was hand to hand work. The end was near.
There, in the little room, Harold stood with three of his men beside him. The others were either dead or dying. But the Boers had got off by no means cheaply. At least twenty of them had been done for. The four Englishmen, with their backs to the wall, fought on, using revolver, muzzle and butt-end, until at last their cartridges gave out, and they threw down their weapons with a curse and surrendered. There was nothing for it. Van Zwieten gave vent to a yell of triumph. His men threw themselves on Burton. But the Englishman was too quick for them. He stepped back quickly and levelled his revolver. He had one chamber loaded.
I have just one left, he said hoarsely "stand up to it, Van Zwieten, for I am keeping it for you!"
Finish him, men! roared the Dutchman.
No, no, cried Brenda, and before a man could move she had flung her arms around her husband and stood between him and them. "The last shot, dear, is for me!" she said.
There was a pause. They held back. Harold never flinched. His wife clung to him desperately. His face was streaming with blood from the graze of a bullet. But he was determined to make good use of that last shot.
Beside Van Zwieten stood a huge man with a white, flowing beard. At last the Dutchman made a dash forward and attempted to take Brenda from her husband's arm.
You are mine, he cried madly, "mine! You shall not die!"
Coward! hissed Burton, "take your lead like the dog you are!" He fired. But she, struggling to free herself from the Dutchman's grasp, fell heavily against his right arm and spoilt his aim. The bullet whizzed overhead. He threw down his weapon and prepared for the worst. He put her behind him. Sobbing, she fell on her knees and clasped her arms around his legs. She felt for her revolver that she might be sure of death when he died.
Fire! rang out from Van Zwieten. "Spare the woman, kill the man!"
Two Boers levelled. But the old man with the white beard rushed forward and struck them aside. They fell wide. "Hold!" he cried, "let no man fire!"
Damn you, Piet Bok, what do you mean? asked Van Zwieten, savagely.
Ah! Piet Bok! cried Harold, seeing a chance of life and of saving his wife, "I am your prisoner again. I yield to you."
Fire, men! shouted Van Zwieten. "Fire, I tell you!" He was seething with rage at the fear lest his prey was going to escape him. Then turning to the old man he said, "Piet Bok! this is my business!"
It is the business of the Republic, retorted Piet, coolly, and at the same moment he struck down a Boer who was about to fire. "I'll shoot the first man who disobeys my orders," he said. "Clear the room. I am in command here!"
It was done. Then they set to work to drag out the bodies of the dead and tend the wounded.
Soon Harold and his wife, Piet Bok and Van Zwieten, were left alone. For the third time the Dutchman had been baffled. The man whom of all others he would have had dead still lived.
Harold, knowing well that Piet Bok would stand his friend, said nothing for the moment, but wrapped his arms round Brenda and faced the two men. The issues of life and death were in their hands.
Will you sit down, Englishman? said Piet Bok. "I see you are wounded."
A mere scratch! replied Harold; "but my wife will sit with your permission!"
Your wife! echoed the Boer leader, who spoke English well enough. "You never told me she was the rooinek's wife!" he added, turning to Van Zwieten.
I did not think it was necessary, growled the other; "besides, I thought that would have ceased to be by now!"
Yes, I can well believe that! cried Brenda, with sudden energy. "Mynheer Bok, do not believe what this man says. He tried to carry me off from my husband last night; and when I escaped to this place he brought you and your men up with the sole object of having my husband shot. He would shoot him now if he dared!"
That he shall not do whilst I am here! cried Piet Bok. "You are both prisoners of the Republic, and as such you shall be treated."
Nothing of the sort! cried Van Zwieten, mad with rage. "I demand that the man be shot and the woman be given to me!"
Piet Bok signed to Harold to remain silent. "On what grounds?"
On the grounds that this woman was engaged to marry me with the consent of her father, and that this man has married her against her father's will.
Is this true? asked the Boer leader.
No! cried Brenda, "it is not true. At one time my father, deceived by this wicked Van Zwieten, did wish me to marry him. But when he found out his true character he consented to my marriage with Captain Burton. I never was engaged to him! I always hated him. This is my husband!" She laid her hand on Harold's shoulder. "Give me to that man and I will kill myself."
She raves! said Van Zwieten. "He has turned her against me."
That is another lie, said Harold, fiercely. "You don't believe him, Piet Bok?"
No, I don't believe him, replied the big man, quietly. "I believe the lady. My friend," he added, turning to Van Zwieten, "can you wish to marry a woman who openly declares hatred for you? Besides, she is already the wife of this English soldier, and she loves him." The Dutchman winced. "I demand his death!" he cried.
On what grounds?
He is a murderer.
That is untrue, Brenda said quietly, "and you know it, Mr. van Zwieten."
Oh, I wish I could meet you face to face and fight it out! Harold said, between his teeth. "Only death will stop that cursed tongue of yours."
A murderer! repeated Piet Bok, looking at Captain Burton. "That is a serious matter. State your case, Van Zwieten."
Glibly enough he complied. He related the events which had taken place at Chippingholt, the death of Mr. Malet, the finding of the revolver belonging to Harold, and ended by stating his conviction that the crime had been committed by Captain Burton. "And he killed Malet because he was on our side, because he was supplying information about the accursed English to me for the use of the Republic. He----
It is wholly untrue, Piet Bok! cried Harold, furious at the man's audacious mendacity. "I did not kill Malet; I did not know at that time that he was betraying his own country to Van Zwieten. This man's one idea is to get me put out of the way that he may marry my wife, who hates him; and he cares not how he achieves his desire so long as he does achieve it."
I hate him!--oh, how I hate him! cried Brenda. "I will kill myself rather than have anything to do with him. If my husband dies I will die too. Oh, Mynheer Bok, save me; save my husband from that man!"
If you do not shoot the murderer, Van Zwieten said in his turn, "you are no friend to the Republic, Piet Bok!"
The big Boer turned round and cursed him for his words.
I am a true burgher of the Transvaal, said Piet Bok, with vehemence, "and you are an outlander; one of those rats who want to creep into our corn rick and grow fat. The whole of the war is the doing of such as you. What do you know about me in connection with my own country? Nothing. And what you say about these people is untrue. The woman hates you. You would kill her husband to marry her against her will. As to the rooinek, he is not the kind of man to murder. With my own eyes I saw him spare my boy, Hans. You shall harm neither of them."
What will you do, then? shouted Van Zwieten, furiously.
Send them to Pretoria as prisoners. Yes; but not in your charge, mark you. You would kill them on the road. I command here, Van Zwieten. Go out, mynheer, and get your men together. The British are advancing and I have no fancy for being trapped. Go!
But these two! said the other.
I will be responsible for these two, thundered Piet Bok. "Do you want to be shot yourself? That you will be, unless you obey instantly."
Very unwillingly Van Zwieten turned and went, and they heard his voice outside shouting to his men. Brenda sprang forward and kissed Bok's hand. "Thank you, mynheer, for your goodness. God bless you!"
Piet Bok, you are a brick! cried Harold, enthusiastically; "and since it seems my fate to be a prisoner, I would rather be your prisoner than anyone else's."
You spared my boy's life, man, was the answer, "and I am not ungrateful. I know Van Zwieten is a bad man, but he is powerful with our Oom Paul. He will make trouble when you are sent to Pretoria." The old man bent forward and whispered, "If I can help you to escape I will. Hush! not a word, my children. I hate Van Zwieten. He is one of those who have ruined our country. Come, now we must go."
Considerably cheered by the friendly spirit displayed by the old man, Brenda and her husband went out on to the verandah. Here they found the Boers--they had buried their dead and had secured the other prisoners--ready to start. The English dead were left unburied, much to Harold's wrath, and he begged Bok to let him and his surviving fellows bury them before leaving. But the permission was refused.
We must get away; there is not time. Your column will be upon us immediately, I know. Mount, Englishmen. And you, lady--see, we have found a saddle for you. Ah! you cannot say we burghers are not civilised. No!
There was no help for it. Brenda mounted, and found the saddle comfortable enough. As it afterwards transpired, Van Zwieten had brought it on a spare horse, so sure had he been of capturing Brenda. How he had managed to procure it in the there Boer entrenchments it was impossible to say, but it was, and Brenda on it now, but not--as the Dutchman had no doubt fondly pictured to himself--his captive. With an expression black as thunder he was riding at the head of the troop. Piet Bok remained in the rear between Brenda and her husband. As they left the house, Harold looked in vain for any sign of General Warren's division.
Prisoners they were, and prisoners they seemed likely to remain, with every probability of being sent on to Pretoria, where they would be at the mercy of the intrigues of Van Zwieten once again. But Piet Bok saw the heavy glower of the Dutchman, and had his own views as to the reason for it.
You expected your column to come up? he said in a low tone; "so did we. Our spies have kept us correctly informed. But it seems there is some delay in crossing the Tugela."
Are you disputing the passage?
No, we are not. We intend to offer no resistance to your reaching the mountains.
Why? Surely you should dispute the river passage.
No! We are about to--never mind. We know what we are doing. Your men are very brave--oh, yes; but your generals--ah, well! the dear Lord has shown them what they should do--for the benefit of the burghers.
Not another word would Piet Bok say; but Captain Burton gathered from his looks and speech that the division was being led into a trap. The Boers were past masters in the art of ensnaring their enemies; and on this occasion they were quite capable of entrapping the whole of Buller's army amongst the mountains. If Harold had only been alone he would have made a dash for freedom and hastened to warn his commanding officer. But as he was placed that was impossible. He could not risk his wife's safety even for that of his division. He could only comfort himself with the thought that the British generals had been rendered more wary by their late reverses, and trust that they would succeed in avoiding this especial trap.
For some hours the little troop trotted over the veldt and drew nearer to the mountains in which the Boers had their entrenchments. Hitherto Van Zwieten had kept away from Brenda, but now he ranged up beside her while Harold was in front with Piet Bok. The man looked pale, while his eyes burned like fire. Brenda shuddered as she glanced at him and turned her horse away.
You are not safe from me yet, he said, noting the action. "And though you shrink from me now, you will come to me later. I have finished with kindly methods. Now I will be your master. Your husband shall die! yes, in spite of that old fool. And when he is dead I will marry you. Don't think you have beaten me--or ever will!"
I am not afraid of you, though you threaten me ever so often, she replied calmly, "for I see that God is thwarting all your wicked schemes. Twice before I escaped you: this is the third time. You are strong, Mr. van Zwieten, but you are not so strong as God!"
Bah! Why do you preach to me? I know what I am doing.
You do not, she said steadily, "but I do. You are marching to your death. Yes, it is true. I believe firmly that you will die in the midst of your wickedness."
You talk like a child, said he, uneasily, for he was inclined to be superstitious, and her solemn tone of conviction made him uneasy.
You can laugh at me if you please, but I am certain that what I say is true. You will die--die in----
But before she could finish her dismal prophecy Van Zwieten, thoroughly dismayed by her words, had put spurs to his horse and ridden away at full speed.
After the excitement of that day and night came five days of quiet--quiet at least for Captain and Mrs. Burton, held prisoners as they were in a Boer house on the slope of a rocky hill sparsely covered with grass. It was the homestead of a sheep farm and the animals fed amongst the hills, and, when the seasons served, down on the plain. The stone house was solidly built; it was of one storey, with a roof of corrugated iron, and was comfortable enough after the Dutch fashion, so that on the whole Brenda and her husband were not unpleasantly situated. More over they were allowed to be together--a privilege which they valued highly. Indeed, it was the sole thing which rendered this captivity tolerable.
As it happened, Piet Bok was unable to send them to Pretoria as he had wished. The Boers were now engaged with Buller's division, and were falling back to a hill called Spion Kop, a name hardly known at that time, but fated in two or three days to be spoken of all over the world. Not a burgher could be spared to escort them to the capital, but, strangely enough, a sufficient number were told off to guard the farm house. Harold was somewhat suspicious of this arrangement--suspicious that somehow Van Zwieten had had to do with it; but he had no means of making certain. The Dutchman had never come near them, but they feared him all the more now that he was out of sight, and fully expected some fresh trouble. As he had warned Mrs. Burton, he had not done with them yet.
Occasionally they were visited by Piet Bok, and the old man still seemed as kindly disposed as ever, but as yet he could do nothing to help them; so for five days they had to make the best of their irksome captivity. Not even a book or a paper could they find. However, putting aside the constant dread of Van Zwieten, they were not unhappy. The house stood so high that there was a splendid view of a large plain, and on the left a huddle of hills. Beyond these the fighting was going on, and the prisoners could hear the boom of the cannon and the shriek of shells. At times they could see the smoke of the battle afar off. Harold hoped that the advance of the army would bring them help at last, but the fighting was in a more westerly direction, and the hoped-for help never came.
If we could only escape, Brenda! he said for the hundredth time. "It is maddening to be shut up here and to listen to all that! We must make one desperate attempt to get away. You are not afraid, I know?"
I am not afraid, replied his wife, "but we must not be rash. We have no weapons, no horses, no food. I don't see how we are to manage it."
Nor do I, unless Piet Bok will help us. These men outside would give us no quarter if we tried to get away. They are just dying to get rid of us.
Brenda shuddered. "Harold, don't! It is terrible to think of. I feel sure all will come right in the end."
It won't if Van Zwieten can help it.
He will have enough to do to look after himself. Harold, that man will die!
How do you know? Do you mean a violent death, and that soon?
Yes, that is just what I do mean. My mother was a Highland woman, and had what they call second-sight. I have not got it myself, I suppose, because I am not a pure Celt. But I have enough of the seer in me to have a presentiment about that man! I feel certain that he will die by violence, and that shortly. I can't explain myself more clearly.
One never can explain a feeling of that sort. You told this to Van Zwieten himself?
Yes, and I frightened him. Perhaps that is why he has not been near us.
I should not have thought he was superstitious, Brenda; nor you either, for that matter.
I am not, as a rule, was her reply, "but I feel that what I say is true. Van Zwieten will die!"
Harold, sturdy, stolid Englishman as he was, tried to argue her out of this idea, but he gave it up as hopeless. She had made up her mind that their enemy was a dead man, or would be dead within a few days. Strange to say, it was on that very day that he paid them his first visit. He looked as handsome and as burly as ever. Going by appearances, he had a good many years of villainy before him yet.
He came up to the veranda and saluted Mrs. Burton with a low bow of which she took no notice.
You are surprised to see me? he said, with his usual cool insolence.
I cannot say that I am surprised at anything you do, was Harold's disdainful reply. "But if you have come to make the same proposition you made before, I warn you that I shall not listen to it so patiently."
The Dutchman cast a quick glance at the slender figure of the other man. "I am not afraid of you," he sneered; "you have no weapons--neither sword nor revolver."
I can use my fists even on such a big bully as you!
As you please. But I don't see much chance of delivering my message until you moderate your tone.
What is your message? asked Brenda, speaking for the first time.
I come to offer you freedom.
On what conditions?
There are none. I love you still. If I had my way I would kill your husband and marry you. But unfortunately, said Van Zwieten, with a sneer, "I am amongst a very moral people. Piet Bok has told the Boer generals about what they are pleased to call my wickedness, and I have been informed that if I persist in my plans I may say good-bye to all advancement amongst the godly Boers. Now I am a poor man, and cannot afford to lose all I have gained. Ambition for me must be stronger than love. So, Mrs. Burton, I give you up!"
Thank God! cried she, clasping her hands; adding, as an afterthought, "If I could only believe you!"
Oh, you can believe me, he said gloomily. "If I were only a rich man--rich enough to give up my position here--I would never rest until you were mine. But the choice lies now between you and my position. I choose to lose you. From this moment you need have no fear of me. You can go with your husband where you will. You do not love me--I know it now--but him you do love--unworthy though he is----"
That is a lie! Captain Burton cried, starting up.
Hush, Harold! Is it worth while arguing about? Let him go on. Well, Mr. van Zwieten, you have come to tell us this. What else?
I have come to offer you my assistance to escape.
Oh! That is what I hardly expected to hear you say. And you must pardon me if I don't believe you.
As you please, he said again. "But you can escape to-night if you will. The men here now I shall take away with me shortly. Two horses will be left behind--food is in the house; and here are a couple of revolvers--one for you and one for Burton."
They took the weapons in silence. Could this be Van Zwieten? They did not know him in this new r?le of self-abnegation, and the suspicions of both husband and wife were thoroughly aroused. But the revolvers were good ones, and they were loaded. Could it be that he spoke truly and that he was anxious now to retrieve his past, to give up his plotting and spying and to live a virtuous life amongst the too-moral Boers, who had indeed, perhaps, forced him to do this thing?
Still Brenda looked doubtfully at him, for compulsory righteousness was somewhat hard to credit.
I see you don't believe me, he said, after a pause. "Well, perhaps you are right. It is rather late in the day for me to turn saint. But you may be sure I should not do this unless I had some very strong inducement. If you are taken to Pretoria you will only remain to vex my eyes, and I want to get you out of sight. That is my reason for giving you your freedom. To-night I will send a messenger who will guide you to the British outposts. They are not so far off as you think. Buller has advanced almost to Spion Kop, and he has taken several of our positions. If he gets Spion Kop--and I understand Warren intends to capture it if he can--he will have the key to our position and will march on to Ladysmith. But"--he shrugged his shoulders--"there is many a slip, you know. Well, I will go in and get my men. Will you follow my messenger?"
I can't say yet, Captain Burton said bluntly. "You speak fair enough, but this may be a trick for all I know."
How should I benefit by a trick? Van Zwieten asked. "If I wanted to kill you I could do it now, and no one would be the wiser. The Boers here would shoot you with pleasure. But if I killed you and took Mrs. Burton, why, then, good-bye to my chance of becoming President of the Confederate States of South Africa. No, I will let you go; it suits me better. Love, as I said, must yield to ambition. But if you do not believe me, stay here. My messenger shall come at eight o'clock to-night. Follow him or not as you please. Good-bye, Mrs. Burton. You little know what it is to me to give you up; but you must say I afford you every chance of being happy with your husband."
Brenda looked at him. She began to think he was acting in good faith after all.
I am not ungrateful, she said gently. "We will follow your messenger. Good-bye," and she held out her hand to him.
Van Zwieten bent over it and kissed it. Then he drew himself up, looked at Harold steadfastly and turned away in silence.
Do you believe in him? asked Brenda after a pause.
I don't know. Upon my soul, I don't know. He is such a scoundrel. I wonder you could let him kiss your hand, Brenda!
Craft must be met by craft, she replied in a whisper. "You silly boy, you don't mean to say you are jealous of that? Can't you see that I wanted to disarm his suspicions so that we might get away safely?"
"Then you don't believe in him? No; he has some scheme in his head. Hush, it's not safe to talk about it now--when he's gone. Meanwhile, let him think we accept his offer.""
"It would really seem as though Van Zwieten were acting straightforwardly for the first time in his life. The Boers who had been guarding the place got their rifles, saddled the horses, and, headed by Van Zwieten, took themselves off down the mountain-side, and were shortly afterward to be seen riding across the veldt in a northerly direction. Captain Burton, still suspicious, could not believe in his good fortune. With Brenda he proceeded to explore the house. It was empty. They searched the orchard, the sheep kraals, the Kaffir huts--in fact, the whole domain, but they could find no trace of a single soul. No weapons had been left, but they had the revolvers. In the stable were two horses already saddled. Harold pointed this out to his wife.
Ready, you see, for the journey! said he. "Van Zwieten is evidently very sure that we shall accept his offer."
Well, we'll not disappoint him so far as the horses are concerned, replied Brenda; "but as to waiting for his messenger, I don't think we'll do that."
Why, Brenda, what do you mean? We don't know an inch of the country.
Probably this messenger of Van Zwieten's will know it rather too well for our liking. I don't trust the arrangement in the least. Believe me, dear, he will only lead us into some trap and we shall be prisoners again.
I don't see that Van Zwieten need have given himself the trouble to do that--we were his prisoners already.
I can't see through it at present either. But, nevertheless, I'm sure there's something at the back of his ostensible generosity.
Captain Burton was at a loss how to interpret it. On the whole, he was inclined to trust to his wife's instinct. He had no sort of premise on which to argue against it.
So they had something to eat and decided to leave at sundown. Beyond the hills they knew the British were engaging the enemy, so if they made due west they had every hope of coming up with the outposts of the advancing column. There was, of course, always the chance that they might not get even so far safely, but that they preferred to risk rather than trust in Mr. van Zwieten.
Their horses were wiry little animals enough, and, if put to it, could show a very pretty pace. They fed and watered them now preparatory to their start. On the whole they were sanguine.
Then came a surprise. As they were making their own meal they heard from outside a voice hailing them in English. Harold rushed to the door and returned shortly with Piet Bok. The old man looked anxious, and hurried forward to shake Brenda by the hand.
Thank the dear Lord you are safe, he said with emotion. "I feared it might be otherwise--that you had fallen into that man's snare."
Then it was a snare! cried Brenda, at this confirmation of her own feelings. "Tell us, Mynheer Bok, what was his plan?"
Ach! is it not to tell it you and save you from it I am here? He rubbed his hands. "I will show Van Zwieten that others can be slim as he. Beloved Lord, he is the seed of Satan, that man."
He took away the guards, but he has left us the two revolvers and a couple of mounts all ready saddled.
Quite so; and he is to send a messenger soon, is he not, to lead you to the British camp?
Yes, yes.
Believe him not. That messenger will not lead you to your camp, but to an ambuscade of Boers headed by Van Zwieten himself. Then your husband here will be shot and you will be carried off.
The scoundrel! The double-dyed villain! But why all this, mynheer? We were in his power already.
"No, you were not. You must understand that I have power with the burghers; yes, and I told them your story, and they were amazed at the wickedness of this man, and he was told to go out from amongst us lest the dear Lord should send evil on the host. Then he said he would desist from his wicked schemes and send you on to Pretoria to be dealt with by the President. But I overheard his conversation with the messenger whom he intends to send to you, and I know his plan. You are to be carried off, as I have told you, and in durance vile kept until the war is over. Your husband will be shot, probably by Van Zwieten himself. But of all this he will say not a word to the burghers, and thus he will maintain his place amongst them. You see why he does not act openly? I see,"" said Brenda, her color rising. ""Now what are we to do?""
"Come with me at once, said Piet Bok. "I will lead you by another route to your outposts, and so shall we thwart this son of the pit. But you must come at once, there is not a moment to lose."
But the messenger?
Of course we do not wait for him. It would mean death to you or to him.
Right you are, then; let's get off straight away. It's getting dark already.
Ach, yes! that is well. Come along, then.
Their trust in the old man was implicit. He had always proved a friend hitherto. The sun was setting in floods of gold over the mountain-tops as they rode down the path which descended to the veldt. Heavy rains had rendered the ground sodden. Piet Bok headed for a point in the hills where he said there was a pass other than the one in which Van Zwieten was waiting. Unluckily, as they started across the veldt, they saw a horseman coming toward them at full speed.
The messenger! cried Brenda. "What are we to do now, mynheer?"
The old man unslung his gun. "Kill him," he said quietly, "else he will ride on and tell Van Zwieten. If he sees me with you he will guess the truth. It is well known in laager that I am the enemy of Van Zwieten."
Must he really be killed? asked Brenda, with a shudder. It was terrible to her that this man should be shot in cold blood.
It is his life or mine, dear, said her husband, pulling out his revolver to be ready if Piet Bok should fail.
But the approaching Boer was not going to trust himself at close quarters. He circled round them and held out a white flag in token of friendship. Harold laughed grimly as he recognized the old trick. Piet Bok sighted, and fired. But the fellow flung himself flat down on his horse's neck and the shot missed him.
He rode off with a defiant whoop. A big Dutch oath escaped from the lips of Piet Bok, and he caught Brenda's horse by the bridle.
We must ride for it, he said. "The man recognized me, and you too. He will hasten back to Van Zwieten, and they will be after us in no time. We must make for the hills."
How can I thank you, Bok? said Harold, gratefully.
Almighty, that is right! you spared my boy Hans.
By this time the messenger was a mere speck on the horizon. He was riding like the wind to take this news to his chief.
The three fugitives made a straight line for the pass, urging their horses to their best. The sun had dropped behind the mountains and the shadows were gathering fast on the veldt. For several hours they tore on until they reached the mouth of the pass. There they pulled up to give themselves and their animals breath.
I think we can count ourselves safe now, said Piet Bok, wiping his brow. "But we must push on through the pass. At the other side let us hope we shall come up with your men."
The track was narrow and winding and full of mud, which fouled the horses and made the climbing doubly hard. It was quite dark there, but Piet knew every inch of the path, and rode on ahead fearless and confident. In about an hour they emerged. There were the lights of the British camp twinkling a mile and a half away.
As they commenced the descent they heard a shot ring out, and Brenda gave a cry of dismay. Piet Bok had fallen from his saddle.
Ride, ride for your lives! cried the old man. "He has come round by the other pass."
And so it was. Van Zwieten, instead of following at their rear, had pushed through the other pass and had cut them off. But he had made one mistake. He had allowed them to get out of the pass on to the higher ground instead of cutting them off from the camp. As shot followed shot, Harold caught Brenda's horse by the bridle. Headlong they tore down toward the plain.
The light, or rather the dark, was all against the pursuers. They gave up firing and made to overtake them. But the sound of the muskets had already been heard in the camp, and they could hear the bugles ringing out. Whether the brave old Boer who had saved them was dead or not they did not know. It was beyond their power to aid him. They urged their horses on and on, for in their speed lay the only hope of escape.
Courage, Brenda! cried Harold. "Stick to it; they've heard the firing in camp."
I will, dear--I will.
Then her husband looked round, and an exclamation of mingled relief and triumph came from him. They had given up the chase.
They've had enough of it, hurrah! he cried.
They were now within a short distance of the camp, and could hear the commands being given consequent on what evidently had been taken for the commencement of a surprise on the part of the Boers. Those behind them had turned and fled now in the opposite direction--all of them save Van Zwieten.
He stood up and fired twice. But his shot fell wide. Then Harold turned and tried what his revolver would do at that range. Van Zwieten's arm fell useless. Then he galloped off, none too soon, for a squadron of mounted infantry came on the scene just at the moment.
What's all this? shouted the captain in command.
We have escaped! shouted Harold--"Burton and Mrs. Burton."
What, is it you, old man? cried a friendly voice--a voice they knew well.
For the fourth time Brenda had escaped her enemy.
Having no ambition toward enacting the r?le of heroine of an Adelphi melodrama, Brenda was beginning to weary of this game of hide-and-seek. However, she was safe for the time being, as even the redoubtable Van Zwieten could hardly be expected to take her from the midst of the British army. Harold reported the mishap which had led to the loss of his men, and afterward rejoined his company. He wished his wife to go back to Spearman's Camp; but she begged so hard to remain that at last he consented. Permission was obtained from the authorities, and Brenda betook herself to her old task of nursing the wounded. She related to her friend the doctor as much of her adventures as she could without trenching too closely on her private affairs; and great surprise was expressed at her perils and her lucky escape. But to Wilfred, who came to see her and his brother as soon as he heard of their rescue, she related everything in detail.
By Jove! what a scoundrel that fellow is! said that young man. "I wonder when he intends to leave you alone."
Never, I fear, replied Brenda. "Unless he is killed I shall never be safe from him."
I'll shoot him myself if I get a chance. He is a danger to society--it must be some one's business to put him out of the way. You have had a bad time, Brenda; but I don't think you need fear the man any more.
What makes you say that?
I have an idea that he has come to the end of his tether.
So have I, she said. "And I told him so. But, Wilfred, tell me about my father?"
He has gone back to Durban, as you know, to see the authorities about your disappearance. He thinks you have been taken prisoner by the Boers, and that you are at Pretoria by now. He is going to try and get you exchanged.
There is no need for that, thank God! said Brenda, cheerfully. "I must let him know at once."
That will be difficult unless you send a message from Ladysmith.
When do you think we shall be there?
If the luck holds good, in a couple of days. We have taken most of the Boer positions; now Warren intends to try for Spion Kop to-night. If he captures it, we shall hold the key to the Boer position.
Ah, you see Wilfred, your forebodings are all wrong.
We are yet in the wood, not out of it, replied he, significantly. "However, I will give Buller and Warren all praise. They have done well. All the same, I still condemn this plan of campaign. Only a miracle can render it successful."
Well, we shall see what happens when Spion Kop is taken. Do try and look on the bright side of things, Wilfred.
But the young man departed, still shaking his head. There was no doubt that he was very depressing company. His face wore a look of settled gloom most painful to behold; and he was always prognosticating calamity in the face of the most promising operations. At the same time he invariably refrained from pessimism in his letters to his newspaper, which were usually cheerful and full of devoted praise of the behavior of both troops and officers.
It was anxious work waiting in the hospital while Harold was in the field. But Brenda had not much time for thought. She was nursing the wounded with all her heart and soul, and was an angel of light amongst the weary, wounded soldiers. The doctor called her his right hand, as well he might. She deprived herself of rest and food to be by her patients. Only when compelled to, did she lie down; and then it was in her clothes, ready to be up and doing at the call of duty. Her best qualities came out in this most arduous work.
The grand attack on Spion Kop was to be made at night, in order to effect a surprise. All day long the operations went on in the field. Toward sunset Harold's company had to dislodge a number of Boers who had entrenched themselves on the slope of the mountain. The position was taken and the enemy fell back; but not without considerable loss of life on both sides. Amongst the wounded was Harold, who was shot through the lung. It was dark when the news was brought into the camp, and the ambulance bearers started under a rising moon for this miniature battlefield.
Quite unaware of her husband's mishap, Brenda was busy attending a dying man. But he was beyond her aid, and died within a very short time of his being brought in. She was closing his eyes with a sigh at the horrors of war when one of the doctors told her that she was wanted. With a presentiment of bad news she went out and found Wilfred waiting to speak to her. He was greatly agitated and took her hand as if to give her courage.
Brenda, I have bad news for you!
It is Harold! she cried, pale to the lips.
Yes, it is Harold. I have only just heard.
He is dead?
No. I hope not--I don't know but he fell while leading the attack on one of the small kopjes. They are just going out to bring in the wounded. I thought----
Yes, I'll come, said Brenda, anticipating his speech. "Is it far?"
No, not very. Make haste. God grant we may find him alive!
She needed no second bidding, but hastily gathered together some medical comforts, wrapped herself in a cloak and came out. In silence they walked toward the fatal spot which had been pointed out to Wilfred by a private who had seen Harold fall. She did not weep. Her emotion was too deep for tears. The moment which she had been dreading all these months had arrived--unexpectedly, as all such moments do. Now she felt that the actual event was not so terrible as the expectation had been. There was a chance that he might be alive. He was wiry, healthy, clean-blooded and clean living, and the Mauser bullets, as Brenda had seen, inflicted a clean wound. Full of silent prayer she walked on. Had she heard of this in England she would have been distracted; but somehow, since she was on the spot and would soon be with him, it did not seem quite so terrible. At all events he had fallen in the forefront of battle, doing his work, and not by the treachery of Van Zwieten. If he died he could not die more gloriously. There was comfort in that thought.
I saw Van Zwieten to-day, said Wilfred, suddenly.
You did? Where? When? asked Brenda, wondering if after all the scoundrel could have had anything to do with this mishap to her husband.
On the lower slopes. I was looking through my field-glass and saw him quite plainly riding about on a big black horse. I recognized him by his long golden beard. I am certain it was he; that was why I wanted you to come with me to see after Harold.
I don't understand----
Because as Van Zwieten is about the place he is bound to hear that Harold has been shot. He has spies everywhere; and from one of our prisoners I heard that he had described Harold's appearance to several Boer sharp-shooters, that the poor chap might be picked off.
Do you know the prisoner's name?
Yes; and he's a fine old fellow who did good service to you--Piet Bok!
Then he was not killed at the time we escaped?
No, only touched on the right arm. He was taken prisoner this morning. I would have come and told you, but I couldn't get away. I saw him by chance, and he recognized me from my resemblance to Harold. I told him he was wrong and then he informed me of Van Zwieten's new villainy. By this time the man who picked off Harold has, no doubt, told Van Zwieten, and has received his reward. And that scoundrel will probably come down to see if the news is true.
What? shrieked Brenda. "Oh, don't, Wilfred! If he finds Harold still alive he will kill him."
That's what I thought; and that's why I got you to come with me. I feel certain that the brute will be there.
She uttered a cry of mingled terror and pain. "Oh, Wilfred, do not let us lose a moment. Harold, my darling!" She began to run.
Come, Brenda, keep as quiet as you can. You'll need all your strength!
A glorious moon filled the world with its pale radiance. The shadows of the mountains and kopjes were black as Indian ink in the white light. Here and there were points of fire, and in the distance a glimpse of the white tents of the camp. To the right rose the great mass of Spion Kop, with its flat table top dark and menacing. But a few hours and there would be a deadly struggle on that pinnacle. Already the generals were maturing their plans for the assault. Occasionally the boom of a gun could be heard, for the Boers had not yet desisted from firing, in spite of the lateness of the hour. Brenda paid no heed to all this. She strained her eyes toward the rising ground they were approaching. Was he dead or alive? All her life was bound up in the answer to that question.
The Indian bearers swung along at a slow trot, and she followed closely on Wilfred's arm. He felt her shiver although the night was warm, and did his best to console her. And she never forgot his brotherly kindness at that terrible hour.
They climbed up the slope which earlier in the day had been swept by rifle fire. Now the Boers had retreated to another point of vantage, and the position was held by a small force of our men. As the ambulance party approached it was challenged and the word was given. In a few minutes the bearers were within the entrenchments.
Glad you've come, said the officer in charge; "there are many poor fellows here who require your attention. The enemy are removing their dead now."
He addressed these remarks to the doctor, but he saluted when he saw Brenda, whom he knew. "I expected you, Mrs. Burton. Your husband is over yonder. We have made him as comfortable as possible."
Then he is not dead? gasped Brenda, turning faint.
Oh, no, he said cheerily, "he is worth a dozen dead men. You'll soon pull him round. Over there."
He pointed to the left and she hurried away. Wilfred lingered behind to speak to the officer. "Have you noticed a particularly tall man with the Boers?" he asked, "a man with a golden beard?"
Yes. He asked after Burton. It seems he was a friend of his before the war.
Has he seen him? asked Wilfred, turning pale, for well he knew the reason of Van Zwieten's inquiries.
No, I think not. But he intends to look him up shortly. I think your brother will pull through, Burton, and he hurried away to attend to his duties. Wilfred stood still and meditated. He grasped his revolver. "The man has lived too long," he murmured; "I must do it!"
Then he moved toward the group round his brother. Brenda was supporting his head, and a doctor was examining the wound in the poor fellow's chest. "We must wait till we get him to the hospital," he said. "Have him put into the ambulance, Mrs. Burton."
Has he a chance, doctor? she asked with quivering lips.
I can't say yet. The bullet has pierced the lung. Hope for the best.
Then he hurried away with his attendants, and Brenda was left alone with her husband and Wilfred. Harold was quite unconscious, but breathing faintly, and as she bent over him, with an agonized face, she prayed that God would spare his life. Wilfred stood beside her and looked down silently on that countenance waxen in the light of the lantern. As he stood there, as Brenda placed Harold's head on her knees, both heard a mocking voice beside them.
Well, Mrs. Burton, you are a widow at last!
She gave a cry of horror at the ill-omened words, and Wilfred turned with a bound to clutch Van Zwieten by the throat.
You hound! he cried. "You miserable dog!" and he hurled the big man to the ground.
Taken by surprise, the Dutchman had fallen; but he rose to his feet with an ugly scowl, cursing bitterly. "I'll pay you out for this!" he said menacingly. "At present my business is with Mrs. Burton."
I refuse to speak to you, cried she. "You are a wicked man, and God will punish you."
I rather think that it is you who have been punished, he sneered. "Your husband is dead, or pretty near it. Now it is my turn."
He is not dead. He will live when you are lying in your grave. Leave me; you have done harm enough!
But he has not paid for it! cried Wilfred, savagely.
No, nor will he pay! cried Van Zwieten, defiantly.
Wilfred pulled out his revolver. "I will make you pay!" he said. "You shall fight me!"
The Dutchman was no coward, but he drew back from the terrible expression on the young man's face, accentuated as it was in the strong moonlight.
I refuse to fight with you, he said sullenly. "This matter has nothing to do with you. If I choose to marry your brother's widow, that is my business. Mind your own!"
You shall marry no one, said Wilfred, harshly, "for I intend to kill you."
Brenda did not speak. She listened absently while the two men wrangled. Van Zwieten looked at her for a moment, then he turned his back on Wilfred.
I will not fight you, he repeated.
The other man sprang forward and struck him on the cheek with his fist. "Will that make you fight?"
With a roar of rage Van Zwieten turned and flung himself forward. He caught the younger man in his arms like a child and threw him on the grass. Then he drew out his revolver and fired at the prostrate man. But Brenda had looked up, and seeing his intention had sprung to her feet and grasped his arm. The shot went wide, and in his rage Van Zwieten struck her--the woman he loved--struck her to the ground. And before he could recover himself sufficiently to fire a second time, he fell with a hoarse cry, shot twice through the breast by Wilfred Burton.
Nemesis has come up with you at last, said the young man, picking up Brenda in his arms.
The sound of the shots had attracted the attention of the men near at hand. "Good God, Burton, what have you done?" cried an officer.
Killed some vermin, was the reply. "Here, bring the ambulance along and put Burton into it."
Wilfred! shrieked Brenda, who had recovered her breath, "is he dead?"
No, said Van Zwieten, faintly, "not dead--but dying--I have lost!"
No one attempted to molest Wilfred. "I can explain myself to the commanding officer," he said. "He will approve of what I have done."
By this time the other Boers had taken their departure, or there might have been trouble at this violation of the armistice. Brenda aided the men to place Harold in the ambulance, and when she had made him comfortable, returned to the side of Wilfred, who was explaining his conduct to the officer in command. Van Zwieten heard her footstep--or he must have felt her presence near him. He opened his eyes. "I am done for," he said. "I suppose it is just, but I loved you, Brenda!"
Much as she hated him, she could not see him die there without making an effort to save him. She tried to staunch the wound, but it was impossible. The doctor had long since taken his departure. Seeing that all human aid was useless, she moistened the man's lips with brandy.
Thank you, he said faintly. "Will you forgive me?"
Yes, I forgive you, she whispered, "but you must ask forgiveness of God."
Van Zwieten shook his head feebly. "It is too late for that. Ask Burton to forgive me. He has punished me. He can afford to be generous."
Wilfred overheard the words. "I forgive you the ill you have done my family, but I do not forgive you for seeking the hospitality of my country and betraying it. Come, Brenda!"
I can tell you something about that, said Van Zwieten, in a weak voice. "Come near."
Quite unsuspicious, Wilfred knelt down beside him. In an instant Van Zwieten raised his revolver and shot him through the throat. He fell back with the blood pouring from his mouth.
Van Zwieten laughed. "Quits!" he said. Then he fell back dead.
All was confusion. Brenda knelt beside her brother-in-law, and took his head in her lap, while the others crowded round Van Zwieten's dead body. Wilfred opened his eyes, saw Brenda's eyes bending over him, and whispered, "Bend down, quick!"
She put her ear to his mouth, and heard him whisper in broken words, "In my breast-pocket--look yourself--packet--confession. I shot Malet."
You--oh! gasped Brenda. "Why?"
Wilfred Burton raised himself up with one last expiring effort. "For England!" he cried. "For England--God bless Eng----" Then he too fell back a corpse. Brenda fainted.
Two weeks later Mrs. Burton was in Maritzburg, by the sick-bed of her husband. As prophesied by Wilfred, the attempt to relieve Ladysmith by storming the impregnable positions of the enemy had failed. Certainly Warren had been so successful as to have seized Spion Kop, but only to abandon it on finding the position untenable. Then Buller very wisely had fallen back on his original line of defence across the Tugela; and the retreat had been conducted in a masterly fashion, without the loss of a man or a gun. Brenda and her wounded husband had gone back also to Spearman's Camp, and later on had gone on to Maritzburg. Wilfred was left in his lonely grave under the shadow of Spion Kop, where also lay the body of Van Zwieten.
Harold's wound was dangerous, but had not proved fatal. He had been invalided home by the doctors; and so soon as he might be able to travel he was to sail for England. But when that would be it was difficult to say. For some days he had hovered between life and death; but now he had turned the corner and was gradually winning his way back to life under the loving and skillful care of his wife. He was out of danger and on a fair way to recovery, but it would be many a long day before he would be able to fight again.
In the meantime, Mr. Scarse, hearing that his daughter was safe and sound, had now returned from Durban, and was staying at the same hotel. He was thankful to know that at last she was to be spared the persecutions of Van Zwieten, whose death he openly rejoiced in. He was greatly astonished at the news that Wilfred had killed Malet, but he hardly censured him so severely as a Little Englander might have been expected to do in the circumstances. But, indeed, Mr. Scarse was by no means so virulent against his country now as he had been in the past. His visit to South Africa had opened his eyes to the other side of the question, particularly to the many failings of the Boers. He had learned from experience that England was not invariably wrong; that however she might blunder, she had usually right on her side. In fact, both as a father and a politician, Mr. Scarse was a reformed character.
Harold was terribly distressed to hear of the death of his brother. For a long time Brenda kept the news from him, fearing its effect in his weak state. But the day came when it could no longer be withheld, and she was obliged to tell him the truth.
It was a glorious tropical morning. Her father had gone out, and she was seated by her husband's bed, holding his hand in her own. His beard had grown, he was thin and haggard, but his eyes were bright and full of intelligence. He was anxious, and able now to hear all that had to be told. And she told him everything. He was amazed.
Wilfred killed Malet! he said, hardly believing his ears. "But he had a sprained ankle on that night. It is impossible!"
His sprain was feigned to protect himself, replied Brenda, sadly; "it is all in his confession."
He left a written confession?
Yes, he wrote everything as it happened on that night, and carried the statement about with him, to be placed in the hands of you or myself when he died. Hush, Harold, dear, you must not speak. Here is my father.
Mr. Scarse entered on tiptoe to inquire how the invalid was getting on. He brought in some fruit--always a welcome gift to the convalescent. He had heard enough to acquaint him with the subject under discussion. So busy had Brenda been in nursing her husband that she had not found time to tell the whole story to her father. Now he asked her for details, and she went over them again for his benefit.
But why did Wilfred kill the man? he asked.
From sheer patriotic feeling, answered his daughter. "He found out that Mr. Malet was supplying information about our defences to Van Zwieten, and he remonstrated with him. Malet laughed at his scruples and denied his complicity. Then Wilfred searched Mr. Malet's desk and found papers which proved conclusively his treachery. Then it was he decided to kill him to save the honor of the family."
Well, said Scarse, reflectively, "murder is a terrible crime; but if ever it is excusable, surely it is in such circumstances as these."
So I think, chimed in Harold. "A man who betrays his country should not be allowed to live. In his place I would have acted just as Wilfred did. It was not a murder; it was well-deserved extermination."
It is terrible, nevertheless. Read the confession, Brenda, said Mr. Scarse.
No. I can tell you the story better. Harold must not be wearied, and the confession is long. Wilfred has stated at great length the reasons which led him to this act, and sets out a strong defence of it. He never regretted it at all events.
Go on, Brenda, dear child. I am anxious to hear how he did it.
She glanced at Harold to see if he was listening, and began: "I need not weary you with his own defence," she said. "As I have told you, from papers in Mr. Malet's desk he found out that he was a traitor, and was supplying Van Zwieten with information concerning the plans of the Government, the number of men and guns which we could place in the field, and many other things which the Transvaal authorities wished to know. Had Kruger and his gang not known that we were wholly unprepared, they would not have dared to defy Great Britain and risk this war. Mr. Malet, it appears, is responsible for a great deal--indeed, for the whole war!"
The scoundrel! Harold said weakly. "I am glad, indeed, that Wilfred shot him. I would have done so myself."
To ward off suspicions from his doings, Malet posed as an Imperialist. He saw Van Zwieten only at intervals. It was to obtain possession of some papers from Malet that Van Zwieten came down to Chippingholt, and for that reason he extorted an invitation from you, father.
I thought he was anxious to come, Mr. Scarse said. "Now I can see it all."
She continued: "Wilfred heard that Van Zwieten was at the cottage, and kept a sharp eye on Malet. He found out that he was to meet Van Zwieten on that night and give him some documents. He then made up his mind to kill him, to save--as I have said--the honor of the family, as well as to punish him for his wickedness in betraying his own country.
Shortly before nine o'clock, Van Zwieten came to the Manor and entered the library by one of the French windows. It was his voice that Lady Jenny heard when she went to see if her husband was back from his walk. Indeed, it was Malet who brought Van Zwieten to the library to give him the papers. When Lady Jenny was on her way to the Rectory to see you, Harold, Wilfred escorted her. She mentioned that she had heard voices in the library, and wondered with whom her husband had been speaking. Wilfred guessed at once that the man was at his scoundrelly work, and was more than ever determined to put a stop to it. To get away from Lady Jenny without exciting her suspicion, and also to prove an alibi in case he shot the man, he pretended to sprain his ankle. Lady Jenny was quite unsuspicious, and went on to the Rectory alone. As you know, she never reached it, having been stopped by the storm. As soon as she was out of sight, Wilfred hastened back to the house with the intention of confronting both men, and killing Malet if he did not take the papers back from Van Zwieten. He also entered the library by the French window, so the servants never saw him come in. He found the room empty, as Van Zwieten had gone away, and Malet with him--I suppose it was to receive further instructions. Wilfred saw the revolvers belonging to Harold on a side-table, for Mr. Malet had been using them that afternoon. He took one, found that it was loaded, and hastened after the pair. Knowing that Van Zwieten was at our cottage, he went first in that direction; but for a long time he could see neither of them. At last he caught sight of Malet in the orchards, just before the storm. He was talking with a man whom Wilfred took to be you, father.
My brother, I suppose?
Yes, replied Brenda. "It was Uncle Robert. He heard high words between the two and saw the struggle."
That was when the crape scarf was torn?
Undoubtedly. Malet must have torn it and held it in his hand without thinking. Well, Wilfred saw Malet throw the other man to the ground just when the storm broke, and hurry away to get back to shelter in the Manor; but the storm was so violent that he took shelter instead under a tree. Wilfred crept up to him and waited, but it was so dark that he could not see him plainly enough to shoot straight, and he was, of course, unwilling to risk failure. Then a flash of lightning revealed Mr. Malet. Wilfred sprang forward and grasped him by the shoulder. He cried out. I heard him myself. I was only a short distance away. When the darkness closed down again, Wilfred put the muzzle of the revolver close to his head and blew his brains out. Then he ran away, and in the darkness tripped over a stump. The revolver flew out of his hand, and he lost it.
Van Zwieten found it?
Yes. Wilfred was a good deal troubled about it, for he knew that Harold's name was on it, and he feared lest he should on that account be accused of the murder.
"As I was, indeed, said Harold. Yes, dear, I know; but not officially. If, for instance, you had been arrested on the charge, then Wilfred would have come forward and have told the whole story. As it was, he kept silence.""
"And what did he do after he had killed Malet? asked Mr. Scarse.
He went back to the place where Lady Jenny had left him, and waited for some time in case she should return. You see, to exonerate himself he thought it well to keep up the fiction of the sprained ankle. Then, as Lady Jenny did not return, he went home, and gave out that his ankle was sprained.
But didn't the doctors find out the truth?
No; he took good care not to show his foot to any one. He wrapped it up in wet cloths and made a great fuss about it, but, in the excitement over the inquest, the doctor took no notice of it.
I wonder Lady Jenny didn't find out the fraud, said Harold.
In that case, Wilfred would have owned up to it and confessed the whole thing. And I don't believe she would have minded much, if she had known what a traitor her husband was.
No; I dare say she would have applauded Wilfred. She is a true patriot is Lady Jenny, said Harold, with a feeble laugh. "Besides, on account of Robert's wife, she and her husband had become estranged for many a long day. But did Van Zwieten never guess?"
No, said Brenda, reflectively, "I don't think he did. He believed Lady Jenny herself had done it out of revenge; but he could not prove that, and, under the circumstances, lest his own affairs should come out, he thought it wiser to hold his tongue. Well, that is the story, and a very painful one it is. I am sure that Wilfred acted for the best, and did what he conceived to be his duty both to his country and his family; but it is dreadful to think he should have stained his hands with blood."
I don't altogether agree with you, my dear, said Mr. Scarse, energetically. "If Malet had been detected in his treasonable dealings, under martial law he would have been shot openly. As it was, Wilfred executed the sentence privately. I am not one to defend murder, you know, but I cannot bring myself to look upon this as murder."
Wilfred was insane on the subject of patriotism, said Harold. "He was hardly responsible for his actions when he shot Malet. I don't blame him. The reptile deserved his punishment; and Van Zwieten deserved his fate. Wilfred did no more than was right, and he rid the world of two scoundrels."
You forget, Van Zwieten fired first, put in Brenda. "Wilfred only defended himself. I can't pretend I am sorry that Van Zwieten is dead, because so long as he lived he would never have ceased to persecute me. But let his evil die with him, Harold."
So far as that goes I never want to hear his name!
Now you are overtaxing your strength talking, dear, said Brenda, arranging the bedclothes. "You must be quiet and try and rest."
Yes, do, said Mr. Scarse. "I want to have a few words with Brenda."
So Harold lay back, and, after a time, fell into a sleep. His wife told off one of the nurses to stay beside him, and herself went out with her father. When they had gone a short distance he explained why he wished to speak privately with her.
Brenda, he said, "a will was found on Van Zwieten. It seems that there is a sum of some five thousand pounds standing to his credit at one of the London banks."
Really, father; I never thought he was so well off. Evidently spying paid. To whom has he left it?
To you, my dear!
To me? She could hardly believe her ears. "I would not take it if I were starving. I hated the man. How could I touch his money?"
But, Brenda, think for a moment; is it not foolish to throw it away? Five thousand pounds is a large sum.
No, no, no! repeated the girl, vehemently. "I will not touch it, I tell you. That money was made out of spying and working evil against England. I am sure Harold would think as I do about it."
And so Harold did think. Later on, when she returned, she found him just awakened out of a refreshing sleep, and she told him of Van Zwieten's strange bequest. He refused at once to accept it, and commended her for having forestalled him in the decision.
We can live on our own means, small as they are, dear; and, when the war is over, I will beat my sword into a ploughshare and come out here and turn farmer.
That is if we are successful, said his wife smiling.
Oh, I have no fear as to that. In a month or two there will be equal rights for white man and black from the Zambesi to the Cape. But, in any case, there'll be no more fighting for me, Brenda. I shall never be the same man again.
Who says so? she asked quickly.
The doctor. He says this wound will always trouble me, and that I shall never be able to stand the English winters. Here the air is balmy and the climate mild.
In that case we'll do just as you suggest, dearest. There is nothing to keep us in England. My father is wrapped up in his politics, and my aunt and uncle care only for themselves. Yes, you are right, as you always are, Harold. When the war is over we will settle here.
We shall never think less of dear old England because we are exiles, eh, Brenda?
Exiles! We shall not be exiles here. This is part of the British Empire. Wherever the map is colored red there is England. Harold, dear, do you know, I cannot get poor Wilfred out of my thoughts. In his own way he was a true hero. He gave his life for his country.
Yes, Brenda, I agree, just as much as many another man is doing here at this moment. I cannot help feeling relieved that the mystery of Malet's death is cleared up, and I am not ashamed now that I know it was my brother who fired the shot. May such justice ever be done to traitors!
She knelt beside the bed and took his hands soothingly in her own. "Don't talk any more about these things, dearest. They excite you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Let the past lie buried. All I know, and all I care for, is that you are alive, and that I have you wholly to myself. We will never be parted, Harold. We may be poor in the world's goods, but we are rich indeed in love."
And that is the best of all riches, dearest.
Amen, she said and kissed her husband tenderly.
The End