mbulance waggons away and below in the rear. But Field-cornet Theunis
Van Wyk has got his death-blow, and his wife and children--he has three
sons fighting below in the trenches--and grandchildren will see him at
home smoking the pipe of peace no more. The flow of blood is already
rendering him faint, and with a hasty jerked-out message delivered to
his old friend and Commandant to carry to them, and a quavering attempt
at singing a Dutch hymn upon his lips, he passes out like a brave man,
without complaint or rancour, as many and many a one has done and will
do before this day of striving and of carnage is over.

And as the advancing host draws nearer, now in quick intrepid rushes
over open ground where the leaden hail sweeps in its remorseless shower,
now prone and in skirmishing formation, the roar of battle waxes louder
and louder. On both sides the crackling din of volleys is well-nigh
incessant--as the rifles speak from trench or temporary cover, with dire
effect. But there is very little smoke, although the plain on either
side is simply spurting puffs of dust where each bullet finds its mark--
save where such mark is not mother earth. In the background the
ambulances hover, their heroic attendants darting in now and again, and
rescuing the maimed victims under the leaden shower itself. And above
the ceaseless crackle of small arms, the heavier boom of artillery rolls
out more continuous, more unbroken than ever.

Colvin has got over his first shrinking of nerves. He hears the humming
of missiles overhead and around with something of equanimity, he sees
the splash of lead against rock--or the dust-cloud leaping out of the
ground as the bursting iron of shell tears up the surface. Two more of
those upon the kopje fall, one stone dead, the other dying. It may be
his turn next. And then, as even the excitement of the day-long battle
begins to wane and go flat, his thoughts refer to that last parting with
Aletta. What a parting that had been--as though he had been going to
his death, to his execution! He realises the burden of it now, as he
looks on the sad havoc of human life below and around him--the swift
sudden fate leaping out of nowhere--the mangled, the mutilated, moaning
for the boon of death--of being put out of their sufferings; the
lifeless--a moment ago rejoicing in their youth and strength with all
their years before them. Ah yes--and this is war--glorious war!--and at
this very moment there