rce
for the relief of a British town in the heart of Africa.

The population had assembled to watch the mighty cloud of dust which
rolled along the south-eastern horizon. What was it which swept
westwards within its reddish heart? Hopeful and yet fearful they saw the
huge bank draw nearer and nearer. An assault from the whole of Cronje's
army was the thought which passed through many a mind. And then the
dust-cloud thinned, a mighty host of horsemen spurred out from it, and
in the extended far-flung ranks the glint of spearheads and the gleam of
scabbards told of the Hussars and Lancers, while denser banks on either
flank marked the position of the whirling guns. Wearied and spent with
a hundred miles' ride the dusty riders and the panting, dripping horses
took fresh heart as they saw the broad city before them, and swept with
martial rattle and jingle towards the cheering crowds. Amid shouts and
tears French rode into Kimberley while his troopers encamped outside the
town.

To know how this bolt was prepared and how launched, the narrative must
go back to the beginning of the month. At that period Methuen and his
men were still faced by Cronje and his entrenched forces, who, in spite
of occasional bombardments, held their position between Kimberley
and the relieving army. French, having handed over the operations at
Colesberg to Clements, had gone down to Cape Town to confer with Roberts
and Kitchener. Thence they all three made their way to the Modder River,
which was evidently about to be the base of a more largely conceived
series of operations than any which had yet been undertaken.

In order to draw the Boer attention away from the thunderbolt which was
about to fall upon their left flank, a strong demonstration ending in
a brisk action was made early in February upon the extreme right of
Cronje's position. The force, consisting of the Highland Brigade, two
squadrons of the 9th Lancers, No. 7 Co. Royal Engineers, and the 62nd
Battery, was under the command of the famous Hector Macdonald. 'Fighting
Mac' as he was called by his men, had joined his regiment as a private,
and had worked through the grades of corporal, sergeant, captain, major,
and colonel, until now, still in the prime of his manhood, he found
himself riding at the head of a brigade. A bony, craggy Scotsman, with
a square fighting head and a bulldog jaw, he had conquered the
exclusiveness and routine of the British service by the same dogged
qualit