So once more they were obliged to ride and walk alternately.

Now there was not much more than an hour of daylight left, and the narrow pass lay about three miles ahead of them.  That dreadful three miles; ever thereafter it was Benita’s favourite nightmare!  At the beginning of it the leading Matabele were about two thousand yards behind them; half-way, about a thousand; and at the commencement of the last mile, say five hundred.

Nature is a wonderful thing, and great are its resources in extremity.  As the actual crisis approached, the weariness of these two seemed to depart, or at any rate it was forgotten.  They no longer felt exhausted, nor, had they been fresh from their beds, could they have climbed or run better.  Even the horse seemed to find new energy, and when it lagged Mr. Clifford dug the point of his hunting knife into its flank.  Gasping, panting, now one mounted and now the other, they struggled on towards that crest of rock, while behind them came death in the shape of those sleuth-hounds of Matabele.  The sun was going down, and against its flaming ball, when they glanced back they could see their dark forms outlined; the broad spears also looked red as though they had been dipped in blood.  They could even hear their taunting shouts as they called to them to sit down and be killed, and save trouble.

Now they were not three hundred yards away, and the crest of the pass was still half a mile ahead.  Five minutes passed, and here, where the track was very rough, the horse blundered upwards slowly.  Mr. Clifford was riding at the time, and Benita running at his side, holding to the stirrup leather.  She looked behind her.  The savages, fearing that their victims might find shelter over the hill, were making a rush, and the horse could go no faster.  One man, a great tall fellow, quite out-distanced his companions.  Two minutes more and he was not over a hundred paces from them, a little nearer than they were to the top of the pass.  Then the horse stopped and refused to stir any more.

Mr. Clifford jumped from the saddle, and Benita, who could not speak, pointed to the pursuing Matabele.  He sat down upon a rock, cocked his rifle, took a deep breath, and aimed and fired at the soldier who was coming on carelessly in the open.  Mr. Clifford was a good shot, and shaken though he was, at this supreme moment his skill did not fail him.  The man was struck somewhere, for he staggered about and fell; then slowly picked himself up, and began to hobble back towards his companions, who, when they met him, stopped a minute to give him some kind of assistance.

That halt proved their salvation, for it gave them time to make one last despairing rush, and gain the brow of the poort.  Not that this would have saved them, however, since where they could go the Matabele could follow, and there was still light by which the pursuers would have been able to see to catch them.  Indeed, the savages, having laid down the wounded man, came on with a yell of rage, fifty or more of them.