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Flint made no reply; they entered the forest of lowsized malee and pine in silence.

“Jack,” gasped Edmonstone, very suddenly, after half-an-hour, “there’s some one galloping in the scrub somewhere can’t you hear?”

“Eh?” said Flint, waking from a doze.

“Some one’s galloping in the scrub can’t you hear the branches breaking? Listen.”

“I hear nothing.”

“Listen again.”

Flint listened intently.

“Yes no. I thought for an instant but no, there is no sound now.”

He was right: there was no sound then, and he was somewhat ruffled.

“What are you giving us, Dick? If you will push on, why, let’s do it; only we do one thing or the other.”

Dick whipped up the horses without a word. For five minutes they trotted on gamely; then, without warning, they leaped to one side with a shy that halfoverturned the wagon.

Side by side, and motionless in the starlight, sat two shadowy forms on horseback, armed with rifles, and masked to the chin.

“Hands up,” cried one of them, “or we plug.”

THERE was no time for thought, much less for action, beyond that taken promptly by Flint, who shot his own hands above his head without a moment’s hesitation, and whispered to Dick to do the same. Any other movement would have been tantamount to suicide. Yet it was with his eyes open and his head cool that Flint gave the sign of submission.