out, shivering, to look
after his horse, which had been picketed among the steeds of the
burghers. As he did so the sun, mounting above the surrounding heights
into the fresh clear air, seemed to shed around a new hope, to light up
a new exhilaration in his mind. His own atmosphere would clear, even as
the dewy mists of night had done before the great flaming luminary. He
would now seek out the Commandant, explain matters, and resume his way.
And having so decided, he was straightway confronted by a couple of
burghers summoning him to the presence of that official without delay.

Commandant Schoeman was an elderly man with a hard, wooden-faced
expression. He wore a straight lank beard, a chimney-pot hat, once
white, and weather-beaten moleskin clothes, which looked as if they had
not been off him for a month, which indeed was very near the truth. He
was a Boer of the most unprogressive type, and as entirely dissimilar to
one of the stamp of Stephanus De la Rey as could possibly be imagined.
He was lacking in the good qualities of Andries Botma, who, however
fiery and perfervid as a patriotic orator, was a kindly and courteous
gentleman beneath. This man was brusque and uncouth, and cordially
hated everything English, both in season and out of season.

He was seated in his tent as Colvin came up. The flaps were folded back
so that those surrounding him who could not find room inside could still
assist at what was going on in the way of official business. These
consisted almost entirely of Boers holding subordinate commands under
him. They wore their bandoliers, and their rifles lay on the ground
beside them.

"_Daag_, Mynheer Commandant," said Colvin, mindful of the way in which a
greater than this had received a less formal mode of address.

"_Daag_," replied Schoeman curtly, tendering a cold lifeless paw, and
just touching the other's outstretched hand.

The same ceremony was gone through with the others. Two old
acquaintances Colvin recognised--Swaart Jan Grobbelaar and old Sarel Van
der Vyver. These responded to his greeting characteristically--the
first showing his tusks with a sort of oily, half-satirical grin, the
other infusing a heartiness into his reply, and then drawing back as
though half-frightened. There was a third present, however, whom he
recognised--recognised, moreover, with some astonishment--Morkel, the
Civil Commissioner's clerk.

"Hallo, Morkel!" he exclaimed in English. "I never