l day, and dare not stir
hand or foot, and expecting every instant to be my last. I
could hear nothing but the cries, moans, and prayers of the
wounded all round me, but I daren't so much as look up to see
who they were. Shots and shells were going over me all day from
the enemy and our side, and plenty of them striking within a
yard of me--I mean bullets, not shells--and yet they never hit
me. I believe some of the fellows went off their heads and
walked right up to the enemy's place, singing till they dropped
them. One youngster lying close to me said he would make a dart
for it about 3 P.M. I tried my best to persuade him not to, but
he would go. A couple of seconds after I could hear them
pitting at him, and then his groans for about a minute, and
then he was quiet. About this time the sun began to get
fearfully hot, and I began to feel it in the legs, which are
now very painful and swollen, besides was parched with thirst.
Most of the wounded round me had ceased groaning by this time.
As it began to get dark, I managed to wriggle my body through
the shrub farther back, and after I had been at it some time,
on looking up found myself right in front of another
intrenchment of the enemy. They sent a few rounds at me, but
they struck just in front and ricochetted over my head. After a
bit, it getting darker, I got up and walked back, and there was
nothing but dead Highlanders all over the place."

Can anything be more pathetic than these rough outlines of the tragic
scene where so many valiant souls sacrificed their lives without a
chance to win for themselves even the shroud of glory? Truly in this
surprisingly-fought yet disastrous battle--

"A thousand glorious actions that might claim
Triumphant laurels and immortal fame,
Confused in crowds of gallant actions lie,
And troops of heroes undistinguished lie."

Dim, as the dawn of that dire December morning, is our knowledge of the
real agony of those appalling moments, the absolute magnificence of
these human souls who were ordered to march to the grave as surely as
was the Light Brigade at Balaclava. For though Balaclava was a scene of
triumph and Majesfontein was one of misery, both brigades started
gloriously forth, and both were martyrs to a mistake. If ever monument
should be erected to the brave Scottish dead who were sacrificed