ch they had fallen. The plaids dear to every
Highland clan were represented there, and, as I looked, out of the distance
came the sound of the pipes; it was the General coming to join his men.
There, right under the eyes of the enemy, moved with slow and solemn tread
all that remained of the Highland Brigade. In front of them walked-the
chaplain, with bared head, dressed in his robes of office, then came the
pipers, with their pipes, sixteen in all, and behind them, with arms
reversed, moved the Highlanders, dressed in all the regalia of their
regiments, and in the midst the dead General, borne by four of his
comrades. Out swelled the pipes to the strains of "The Flowers of the
Forest," now ringing proud and high until the soldier's head went back in
haughty defiance, and eyes flashed through tears like sunlight on steel;
now sinking to a moaning wail, like a woman mourning for her first-born,
until the proud heads dropped forward till they rested on heaving chests,
and tears rolled down the wan and scarred faces, and the choking sobs broke
through the solemn rhythm of the march of death. Right up to the grave they
marched, then broke away in companies, until the General lay in the shallow
grave with a Scottish square of armed men around him, only the dead man's
son and a small remnant of his officers stood with the chaplain and the
pipers whilst the solemn service of the Church was spoken.

Then once again the pipes pealed out, and "Lochaber No More" cut through
the stillness like a cry of pain, until one could almost hear the widow in
her Highland home moaning for the soldier she would welcome back no more.
Then, as if touched by the magic of one thought, the soldiers turned their
tear-damp eyes from the still form in the shallow grave towards the heights
where Cronje, the "lion of Africa," and his soldiers stood. Then every
cheek flushed crimson, and the strong jaws set like steel, and the veins on
the hands that clasped the rifle barrels swelled almost to bursting with
the fervour of the grip, and that look from those silent, armed men spoke
more eloquently than ever spoke the tongues of orators. For on each
frowning face the spirit of vengeance sat, and each sparkling eye asked
silently for blood. God help the Boers when next the Highland pibroch
sounds! God rest the Boers' souls when the Highland bayonets charge, for
neither death, nor hell, nor things above, nor things below, will hold the
Scots back from their blo