spiciously like being made a prisoner of, a great
despondency came upon him. He had beguiled the journey chatting with
his escort, or captors, or whatever they were, and learned that for the
past day or two fighting had been going on with the British forces out
beyond Schalkburg, and that a few prisoners had been taken, most of whom
would be forwarded to Bloemfontein. There was one, however, who was
exceedingly obstreperous. If he was not careful he would very likely be
shot.

They were challenged by vedettes as they reached the outskirts of the
camp, but allowed to pass through. In the darkness Colvin could make
out a few waggons and several tents pitched without any particular
regard to order. In one or two of these some men were singing Dutch
hymns in a slow, droning tone--but, early as it was, most of the
burghers had turned in for the night. Once, as he passed the farmhouse,
he thought to detect an English voice, proceeding from the stable,
cursing and swearing, its owner the while kicking vigorously against the
door, and supposed this must be the obstreperous prisoner they had been
telling him about. He was shown to a tent, which he found he had to
share with three other men, who were already asleep.

The Commandant? Oh, he could not be disturbed that night. He was
asleep. So there was nothing for it but to put the best face on things.
And yet it was not with pleasant foreshadowings that Colvin Kershaw at
last closed his tired yet sleepless eyes in the burgher camp, realising
that he was something very like a prisoner.

CHAPTER NINE.

COMMANDANT SCHOEMAN'S CAMP.

"Who on earth is making all that row?" was Colvin's first remark on
awakening from sleep the following morning to the well-worn strains of
"Ta-ra-Boomdeay" bellowed in stentorian tones, yet somewhat muffled as
though by distance and obstruction.

"It must be the Englishman--one of the prisoners," yawned another
occupant of the tent, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. "He is
very violent and noisy, so they have shut him up in Gideon Roux' stable
away from the others."

"Is he mad?"

"No. Only violent. Wants to fight everybody with his fists."

"_Nouwja_. I would cure that `madness' with a _sjambok_ if I were the
Commandant," growled another, sitting up and listening. "He gives all
the trouble he can."

The hour was that of sunrise, and although midsummer, the air at that
altitude was raw and chilly when Colvin turned