figures in front
of them. In the dim light they could discern that they were clothed in
grey, and that they wore the broad-brimmed hats and feathers of some
of our own irregular corps. They challenged, and the answer was a
shattering volley, instantly returned by the survivors of the picket. So
hot was the Boer attack that before help could come every man save
one of the picket was on the ground. The sole survivor, Daley of the
Dublins, took no backward step, but continued to steadily load and fire
until help came from the awakened camp. There followed a savage conflict
at point blank-range. The mounted infantry men, rushing half clad to the
support of their comrades, were confronted by an ever-thickening swarm
of Boer riflemen, who had already, by working round on the flank,
established their favourite cross fire. Legge, the leader of the mounted
infantry, a hard little Egyptian veteran, was shot through the head, and
his men lay thick around him. For some minutes it was as hot a corner
as any in the war. But Clements himself had appeared upon the scene, and
his cool gallantry turned the tide of fight. An extension of the
line checked the cross fire, and gave the British in turn a flanking
position. Gradually the Boer riflemen were pushed back, until at last
they broke and fled for their horses in the rear. A small body were
cut off, many of whom were killed and wounded, while a few were taken
prisoners.

This stiff fight of an hour had ended in a complete repulse of the
attack, though at a considerable cost. Both Boers and British had lost
heavily. Nearly all the staff were killed or wounded, though General
Clements had come through untouched. Fifty or sixty of both sides had
fallen. But it was noted as an ominous fact that in spite of shell fire
the Boers still lingered upon the western flank. Were they coming on
again? They showed no signs of it. And yet they waited in groups, and
looked up towards the beetling crags above them. What were they waiting
for? The sudden crash of a murderous Mauser fire upon the summit, with
the rolling volleys of the British infantry, supplied the answer.

Only now must it have been clear to Clements that he was not dealing
merely with some spasmodic attack from his old enemy De la Rey, but that
this was a largely conceived movement, in which a force at least double
the strength of his own had suddenly been concentrated upon him. His
camp was still menaced by the men whom he had repul