Instead of losing time by the change, as it turned out, we had actually gained it.  Hilda was able to put on my sorrel to her full pace, which I had not dared to do, for fear of outrunning my companion; the wise little beast, for her part, seemed to rise to the occasion, and to understand that we were pursued; for she stepped out bravely.  On the other hand, in spite of the low seat and the short crank of a woman’s machine, I could pedal up the slope with more force than Hilda, for I am a practised hill-climber; so that in both ways we gained, besides having momentarily disconcerted and checked the enemy.  Their ponies were tired, and they rode them full tilt with savage recklessness, making them canter up-hill, and so needlessly fatiguing them.  The Matabele, indeed, are unused to horses, and manage them but ill.  It is as foot soldiers, creeping stealthily through bush or long grass, that they are really formidable.  Only one of their mounts was tolerably fresh, the one which had once already almost overtaken us.  As we neared the top of the slope, Hilda, glancing behind her, exclaimed, with a sudden thrill, “He is spurting again, Hubert!”

I drew my revolver and held it in my right hand, using my left for steering.  I did not look back; time was far too precious.  I set my teeth hard.  “Tell me when he draws near enough for a shot,” I said, quietly.

Hilda only nodded.  Being mounted on the mare, she could see behind her more steadily now than I could from the machine; and her eye was trustworthy.  As for the baby, rocked by the heave and fall of the pony’s withers, it had fallen asleep placidly in the very midst of this terror!

After a second, I asked once more, with bated breath, “Is he gaining?”

She looked back.  “Yes; gaining.”

A pause.  “And now?”

“Still gaining.  He is poising an assegai.”

Ten seconds more passed in breathless suspense.  The thud of their horses’ hoofs alone told me their nearness.  My finger was on the trigger.  I awaited the word.  “Fire!” she said at last, in a calm, unflinching voice.  “He is well within distance.”

I turned half round and levelled as true as I could at the advancing black man.  He rode, nearly naked, showing all his teeth and brandishing his assegai; the long white feathers stuck upright in his hair gave him a wild and terrifying barbaric aspect.  It was difficult to preserve one’s balance, keep the way on, and shoot, all at the same time; but, spurred by necessity, I somehow did it.  I fired three shots in quick succession.  My first bullet missed; my second knocked the man over; my third grazed the horse.  With a ringing shriek, the Matabele fell in the road, a black writhing mass; his horse, terrified, dashed back with maddened snorts into the midst of the others.  Its plunging disconcerted the whole party for a minute.

We did not wait to see the rest.  Taking advantage of this momentary diversion in our favour, we rode on at full speed to the top of the slope—­I never knew before how hard I could pedal—­and began to descend at a dash into the opposite hollow.