licted much injury upon the cunning and invisible
riflemen with whom we had to contend.

About midday the infantry began to stream across the bridge, which had
been most gallantly and efficiently constructed under a warm fire, by a
party of sappers, under the command of Major Irvine. The attack was led
by the Durham Light Infantry of Lyttelton's Brigade, followed by the 1st
Rifle Brigade, with the Scottish and 3rd Rifles in support. Never did
the old Light Division of Peninsular fame go up a Spanish hillside with
greater spirit and dash than these, their descendants, facing the slope
of Vaalkranz. In open order they moved across the plain, with a superb
disregard of the crash and patter of the shrapnel, and then up they
went, the flitting figures, springing from cover to cover, stooping,
darting, crouching, running, until with their glasses the spectators on
Swartz Kop could see the gleam of the bayonets and the strain of furious
rushing men upon the summit, as the last Boers were driven from their
trenches. The position was gained, but little else. Seven officers and
seventy men were lying killed and wounded among the boulders. A few
stricken Boers, five unwounded prisoners, and a string of Basuto ponies
were the poor fruits of victory--those and the arid hill from which so
much had been hoped, and so little was to be gained.

It was during this advance that an incident occurred of a more
picturesque character than is usual in modern warfare. The invisibility
of combatants and guns, and the absorption of the individual in the
mass, have robbed the battle-field of those episodes which adorned, if
they did not justify it. On this occasion, a Boer gun, cut off by the
British advance, flew out suddenly from behind its cover, like a hare
from its tussock, and raced for safety across the plain. Here and there
it wound, the horses stretched to their utmost, the drivers stooping and
lashing, the little gun bounding behind. To right to left, behind and
before, the British shells burst, lyddite and shrapnel, crashing and
riving. Over the lip of a hollow, the gallant gun vanished, and within
a few minutes was banging away once more at the British advance. With
cheers and shouts and laughter, the British infantrymen watched the race
for shelter, their sporting spirit rising high above all racial hatred,
and hailing with a 'gone to ground' whoop the final disappearance of the
gun.

The Durhams had cleared the path, but the other