At a dozen places in the bush balls of powder-smoke spurted and bullets slammed into the rim-rocks, whining away with banshee howls. One hit just above Anne's head, and she felt chips of hot lead sting the back of her neck. Just in time she suppressed a whimper of pain; she knew that a sound from her would excite Mr Penton's concern and attention.

There was a sudden, feral chorus of shouts, and Anne thought: Now I know how the stag feels when he hears the wolf-pack baying …

She took fine aim on the leader of the group nearest her, a stocky man in a blue shirt. She let the gold bead of the foresight nestle in the V of the rear-sight and tracked the man till the bead was on his chest. Then she pulled the trig-ger. The gun shoved sharply at her shoulder, filling the cleft with smoke. Dimly she could see the stocky man. He was on his back, one leg drawn up, his right arm thrashing at the ground in pain, while the others with him threw themselves down on the bare ground.

"My God, my God!" Anne whispered. The uncontrollable killing-urge of a moment earlier had gone … Something hit her in the back. With a cry she turned. It was Mr Penton, his eyes wild, looking around for another piece of rock to throw at her.

“Get away from there!" he shouted. Anne remembered Blake's instruction and threw herself sideways, a moment before a storm of bullets destroyed the little bush in the improvised firing-slit …

Six thousand miles away from the stately English manor house where she grew up in peace and luxury, Anne Jervis finds herself literally fighting for her life in the remote fastnesses of Great Namaqualand … a gripping scene from “Blake's Woman”, which transports the reader into an Africa which has not existed for more than a hundred and fifty years.