their ears, and quiver from
muzzle to coronet. The khaki-clad figures on the plain throw up their heads
and turn their eyes towards the sound; the tired shoulders square
themselves, each foot seems to tread the blackened plain with firmer,
prouder tread. The sound of guns is like the rush of wine through sluggish
veins, and men forget that they are faint with hunger, weary to the verge
of wretchedness with ceaseless marching. The sound of guns bespeaks the
presence of the foe, and those gaunt soldiers of the Queen are galvanised
to life and lust of battle by the very breath of war. A ripple runs along
the line, the farthest flanks catch the gleam of the sun on distant rifle
barrels. An order rings out sharp and crisp; the column stands as if each
man and horse were carved in rock.

The infantry lean lightly on their guns, the cavalry crane forward in their
saddles. We pause and wait until we see the green badge of O'Driscoll's
scouts on the hats of the advancing riders. O'Driscoll rides towards the
staff with loosened rein, and every spur in all his gallant little troop
shows how the scouts had ridden. We strain our ears to catch the news the
Irish scout has brought. It comes at last Clements has met the foe, and
death is busy in those distant hills.

Rundle sits silently, hard pressed in his saddle--a gallant figure, with
soldier and leader written all over him. We wait his verdict anxiously, for
on his word our fate may hinge. We have not long to wait--Clements can hold
his own; Brabant will outflank the Boers. Forward, march! The men droop as
wheat fields droop in the sultry air of a seething day. They are tired,
deadly tired; not too tired to fight, but weary of the endless marching
from point to point to keep the enemy from breaking through their lines and
striking southward.

Away in front of us we note the snow-crowned hills which girdle Basutoland,
snow crowned and sun kissed; every hilltop sparkling like a giant gem, and
over all a pale blue sky, curtained by flimsy clouds of gauzy whiteness,
through which the sun laughs rosily, the handiwork of the Eternal. And
underfoot only the deep dead blackness of the blistered veldt, ravished of
its wondrous wealth of living green, the rude, rough footprint of the god
of war--sweet war; kind, Christian war!

Now, overhead, betwixt the smoking earth and smiling sky, flocks of
vultures come and go, fluttering their great pinions noiselessly. To them
the sound of guns i