dusty veld, moved forwards again towards
their objective. That night they halted at the pools of Klipfontein,
having for once made a whole day's march without coming in touch with
the enemy. Hopes rose that possibly the two successive defeats had taken
the heart out of them and that there would be no further resistance to
the advance. Some, however, who were aware of the presence of Cronje,
and of his formidable character, took a juster view of the situation.
And this perhaps is where a few words might be said about the celebrated
leader who played upon the western side of the seat of war the same part
which Joubert did upon the east.

Commandant Cronje was at the time of the war sixty-five years of age,
a hard, swarthy man, quiet of manner, fierce of soul, with a reputation
among a nation of resolute men for unsurpassed resolution. His dark face
was bearded and virile, but sedate and gentle in expression. He spoke
little, but what he said was to the point, and he had the gift of those
fire-words which brace and strengthen weaker men. In hunting expeditions
and in native wars he had first won the admiration of his countrymen by
his courage and his fertility of resource. In the war of 1880 he had led
the Boers who besieged Potchefstroom, and he had pushed the attack with
a relentless vigour which was not hampered by the chivalrous usages of
war. Eventually he compelled the surrender of the place by concealing
from the garrison that a general armistice had been signed, an act which
was afterwards disowned by his own government. In the succeeding years
he lived as an autocrat and a patriarch amid his farms and his
herds, respected by many and feared by all. For a time he was Native
Commissioner and left a reputation for hard dealing behind him. Called
into the field again by the Jameson raid, he grimly herded his enemies
into an impossible position and desired, as it is stated, that the
hardest measure should be dealt out to the captives. This was the man,
capable, crafty, iron-hard, magnetic, who lay with a reinforced and
formidable army across the path of Lord Methuen's tired soldiers. It was
a fair match. On the one side the hardy men, the trained shots, a
good artillery, and the defensive; on the other the historical British
infantry, duty, discipline, and a fiery courage. With a high heart the
dust-coloured column moved on over the dusty veld.

So entirely had hills and Boer fighting become associated in the minds
of