The sun had mounted above the eastern end of the Wildschutsberg, and now
an arrowy beam, sweeping down from the gilded crags, pierced like a
searchlight the cold grey mists of early dawn.
The burgher camp was astir, roused by no bugle call or roll of drum;
opening the day by no parade of flashing accoutrements or inspection of
arms. Yet every unit in that force was alert and ready, prepared to
receive the orders of the day and act upon them with unparalleled
celerity and absence of fuss.
This morning a solemn and awed tone seems to pervade the camp, a
demeanour perhaps to be explained by the approach of a great and
terrible battle; yet not altogether, for most of these men have been
through such and it has not so affected them. There is, however,
another explanation, for among the first of the orders of the day is
that decreeing the taking of the life of Colvin Kershaw.
The life of one man! But they have counted their own dead by dozens
already in battle, those of the enemy too. Yet the anticipation of the
extinction of this one man is sufficient to move the whole camp to awe.
Ah! but there it is. The excitement of the strife is wanting: the
combative instinct dashed by the loftier motive of patriotism. This man
is to be done to death in cold blood.
Beyond Gideon Roux' homestead, on the side furthest from the tents, is
an open space, backed by the steep slope of the hillside. Here the
whole camp is collected. The burghers, all armed, are standing in two
great lines, not in any order except that the ground between these lines
is kept rigidly clear for about twenty yards of width, and the reason
thereof is now apparent. The doomed man, escorted by half a dozen
guards with loaded rifles, is drawing near.
Colvin's demeanour is calm and self-possessed, but entirely free from
bravado or swagger. His clear searching eyes wander quickly over the
assemblage, and a faint, momentary surprise lights them as he notices
the presence of a few women among this crowd of armed men. They are
placed, too, at the further end, quite close to where he himself shall
stand.
As he enters the avenue thus left open for him, every head is bared. He
lifts his own hat in acknowledgment of this salutation, and proceeds to
the place pointed out, which is marked by a _reim_ placed on the ground.
It is the line which he is to toe. The _predikant_ is not beside him,
in compliance with his own wish.
As he stands facing his slayers, a dead hush of silence is upon the
crowd. Through it rises the voice of Commandant Schoeman, hard,
emotionless, yet crisp and clear.
"Even now, Colvin Kershaw, even now, as you stand upon the brink of your
grave and are about to pass into the presence of Almighty God, even now
we have decided to offer you one more chance. Will you sign and abide
by the declaration which was tendered you last night?"
"I refused to purchase my life at such a price last night, Mynheer
Commandant, and I refuse again. Here, as you say, upon the brink of my
grave, I will die rather than draw trigger on my own countrymen. My
sympathies with the Republics and their cause are great, as many here
know. But I will not fight against my own countrymen."
The tone was firm, the answer clear and audible to every soul there
present, and the effect thereof did not differ greatly. Some were
inclined to resent what they called the obstinacy of the prisoner, but
to the minds of most the words carried increased respect.
"One thing more I desire to say," went on Colvin, holding up his hand as
he noticed that the Commandant was about to give the signal. "Here, on
the brink of the grave, I solemnly repeat I am being put to death for an
act which I never committed. I do not say I would not have committed it
had opportunity afforded, for the man was my friend. But I did not. I
die the victim of false swearing."
"You have refused our mercy, even at the twelfth hour," said Schoeman.
"So be it."
He made a signal. Three men stepped forward, each slapping a cartridge
into his rifle, confronting the doomed one at about twenty paces. In
that dread and critical moment Colvin recognised two of them--Gideon
Roux and Hermanus Delport. The third was unknown to him.
"Where is Adrian De la Rey?" he said, in a tone of good-humoured satire.
"_He_ should have been the third. It would have made the plot more
complete."
Up went the three rifles to the shoulder, then down again immediately.
A gasp of horror arose--of dismay, amazement, consternation. Something
had happened.
The doomed man no longer stood alone. Between him and the deadly,
levelled weapons--screening him from them--stood a tall female figure,
whose graceful lines were shrouded by a long cloak. Just a fraction of
a second more, and the murderous bullets would have transpierced two
bodies instead of one.
Among the onlookers the thrill of horror and amazement deepened as the
hood was thrown back, revealing the head and features of the wearer, who
was known to many of them. The countenance of the doomed man lighted up
with a glow of such unutterable affection as to leave room for no other
emotion.
"Aletta! So you have come to take leave of me!" he said. "My darling
one, and yet the sight of you once more adds a hundredfold to the
bitterness of death."
"Of death? No, no, you shall not die, unless we both do. Not a bullet
shall reach you that does not go through me first."
She clung to him in such wise as to render the truth of her words
obvious. The appointed executioners had lowered their weapons and stood
irresolute, as though looking for orders.
"Remove her!" cried Commandant Schoeman.
But nobody seemed over eager to obey. Then, after a hurried
consultation with three or four of his subordinate commanders, he went
on:
"You will have a respite of exactly five minutes, Kershaw. Not one
second longer."
"We have but a short time, Aletta," resumed Colvin, in English and a low
tone. "Tell me quickly--why did you write that strange
message--`Remember--_I saw_'? What did it mean? What did you see?"
"Ah, let us forget that. Love--love! That is as nothing now. You
shall not die."
"Tell me--tell me! Time is flying," he urged.
Quickly she told him--how Adrian had warned her that she was being
deceived; had proved it to her through the agency of her own eyesight,
that day at Johannesburg.
"Adrian was lying. Yet there must be somebody bearing a wonderful
likeness to me. Look me in the eyes, Aletta. Here at the grave's edge
I tell you, this story is absolutely untrue. I went straight to
Cronje's column, and did not even leave the train at Johannesburg.
Afterwards you will learn this for yourself. Sweetheart, I have never
deceived you in word or deed. Do you believe me now?"
"Implicitly! Oh love, love! I am not fit to live after you, and I will
not. Say you forgive me!"
Though they could neither hear nor understand what was said, there was
such a wail of despair and loss in her tone as to reach the hearts of
the bystanders. Some turned away with wet eyes and a lump in their
throats. One or two actually blubbered.
"Forgive?" he repeated.
Only the one word--he too seemed choked for utterance. But it conveyed
all--all she would fain have heard. In the face of the whole assembly,
she drew down his head, and pressed her lips to his in one long
despairing kiss. One or two more of the burghers turned away and
blubbered aloud.
"The time has gone," said Schoeman, in his iron voice. But he might as
well not have spoken for all the effect his words seemed to have on the
two prominent figures in this heart-rending drama. They were locked in
each other's embrace, as though alone in the world together.
"Remove her!" repeated the pitiless tones. "It is a scandal for a woman
to make such a scene as this, and at such a time. Why are my orders not
obeyed?"
"She is the daughter of one of our most respected neighbours,
Commandant," growled a burgher from the Sneeuw River. "We cannot lay
hands on her."
"_Ja_, _Ja_. That is true," echoed several voices.
Schoeman was nonplussed. As Aletta had said, the prisoner could only be
shot at the price of her life! Then a bright idea struck him.
"You have shown yourself a brave man hitherto, Kershaw," he called out.
"Will you now show yourself a coward and shield yourself behind a woman?
If not, put her away from you and stand forth."
"You hear what he says, Aletta? One more good-bye kiss, my very own,
and then leave me. Ah God--how are we to part like this?"
"We will not part. If they shoot you they shall shoot me. But--they
dare not, the cowards. They dare not. See!"
Now her tone rang hard and steely. Still clinging to him, so that he
could not move from her side without using force, and yet leaving
herself the freedom of her right hand, she had drawn a revolver--a very
nasty looking and business-like one at that.
"Now come, brave burghers," she cried. "Advance. The first man who
makes a move on us I will shoot--will shoot dead. Then the next, and
the next, and then myself. As God is in Heaven above I will do this."
Not a move was made. They stared at each other stupidly, this crowd of
armed men. She would be every bit as good as her word--the flash of her
eyes told them so much, for it was that of a tigress when her cubs are
threatened. Things were at a deadlock.
"The paper, Commandant! Ask him if he will sign the paper now," was one
of the suggestions thrown out.
"_Ja, ja_. He will sign it now," cried several voices. "The paper!
The paper!"
But Commandant Schoeman was in a cold, quiet sort of rage. He was being
set at defiance in the face of his whole command, and that by a girl.
He rejected this way out of the difficulty--rejected it curtly and
uncompromisingly.
"Remove her," he said again.
One or two of the older men stepped forward, intending to try the effect
of remonstrance. But the revolver covered them instantly, aimed low,
they noted, and there was such a deadly gleam in Aletta's eyes that they
stopped short and retired. Schoeman was white with rage. But before he
could decide on what to do next, a diversion occurred, unlooked for and
startling.
The sound of many hoofs clattering up the road over beyond the _nek_ was
borne to their ears. Whoever the new arrivals were, they were advancing
at a furious gallop. The cry went up that the English were upon them,
and for a moment the assembly was in a state of tumult.
Only for a moment, though. Schoeman, as cool and brave a man as ever
lived, quelled the confusion by a word or two. For his ears had caught
the challenge of their own vedette on the ridge, and the answer thereto
in the _taal_. These were not enemies, he decided.
A few moments more a score of horsemen appeared on the _nek_, and rode
straight into their midst without drawing rein. A largely built man
with a full brown beard was riding at their head.
"_Maagtig_! It is Stephanus De la Rey!" was muttered from mouth to
mouth. Aletta heard it, at the same time that she recognised her
father.
"We are safe, sweetheart," she murmured, beginning to tremble now that
danger was over, as she supposed. "I said you should not die. Yes, God
is good. We are safe now."
But those there assembled had not reached the limit of their surprises
for that day yet. The party consisted of about a score of armed Boers
who had volunteered to accompany Stephanus De la Rey to Schoeman's camp,
but riding beside Stephanus was one who was not a Boer, being none other
than Frank Wenlock, the escaped prisoner.
The burghers crowded around the new arrivals, the general feeling being
that of intense relief. For now that the original offender was
recaptured, there was no need to shoot this other.
"Where was he caught? Who captured him?" were some of the questions
showered upon the party.
"Nobody captured me," replied Frank, in a loud clear voice. "I have
come in of my own accord, because I heard--no matter how--that Colvin
was to be shot instead of me. So I came back as quickly as I could, and
seem to be only just in time."
"Is that true, brother De la Rey?" said Schoeman.
Stephanus assured them it was. Frank had joined him entirely of his own
accord.
"You were to have been shot at sunrise yesterday morning, and it is past
sunrise this morning," went on Schoeman, turning to Frank. "It is you
or the man yonder. Are you prepared to undergo our judgment on you?"
"Why, of course," answered Frank bravely. "I am not going to allow
Colvin to die in my place. Englishmen don't do that sort of thing."
"Guard him," said Schoeman. "In ten minutes, be ready."