At the first break of dawn on the third day after Mr. Clifford’s attempt at mesmerism, Benita was awakened by the sounds of shouts and firing.  Having dressed herself hastily, she hurried in the growing light towards that part of the wall from below which the noise seemed to come, and climbing it, found her father and Jacob already seated there, their rifles in hand.

“The fools are attacking the small gate through which you went out riding, Miss Clifford, the very worst place that they could have chosen, although the wall looks very weak there,” said the latter.  “If those Makalanga have any pluck they ought to teach them a lesson.”

Then the sun rose and they saw companies of Matabele, who carried ladders in their hands, rushing onwards through the morning mist till their sight of them was obstructed by the swell of the hill.  On these companies the two white men opened fire, with what result they could not see in that light.  Presently a great shout announced that the enemy had gained the fosse and were setting up the ladders.  Up to this time the Makalanga appeared to have done nothing, but now they began to fire rapidly from the ancient bastions which commanded the entrance the impi was striving to storm, and soon through the thinning fog they perceived wounded Matabele staggering and crawling back towards their camp.  Of these, the light now better, Jacob did not neglect to take his toll.

Meanwhile, the ancient fortress rang with the hideous tumult of the attack.  It was evident that again and again, as their fierce war-shouts proclaimed, the Matabele were striving to scale the wall, and again and again were beaten back by the raking rifle fire.  Once a triumphant yell seemed to announce their success.  The fire slackened and Benita grew pale with fear.

“The Makalanga cowards are bolting,” muttered Mr. Clifford, listening with terrible anxiety.

But if so their courage came back to them, for presently the guns cracked louder and more incessant than before, and the savage cries of “Kill!  Kill!  Kill!” dwindled and died away.  Another five minutes and the Matabele were in full retreat, bearing with them many dead and wounded men upon their backs or stretched out on the ladders.

“Our Makalanga friends should be grateful to us for those hundred rifles,” said Jacob as he loaded and fired rapidly, sending his bullets wherever the clusters were thickest.  “Had it not been for them their throats would have been cut by now,” he added, “for they could never have stopped those savages with the spear.”

“Yes, and ours too before nightfall,” said Benita with a shudder, for the sight of this desperate fray and fear of how it might end had sickened her.  “Thank Heaven, it is over!  Perhaps they will give up the siege and go away.”

But, notwithstanding their costly defeat, for they had lost over a hundred men, the Matabele, who were afraid to return to Buluwayo except as victors, did nothing of the sort.  They only cut down a quantity of reeds and scrub, and moved their camp nearly to the banks of the river, placing it in such a position that it could no longer be searched by the fire of the two white men.  Here they sat themselves down sullenly, hoping to starve out the garrison or to find some other way of entering the fortress.