owing late on this tragic Friday when a profound sensation was
caused by a rumour which excited universal awe. George Labram had been
killed by a shell at the Grand Hotel. It sounded incredible, so
improbable and astounding, that he of all others, he who had achieved
greatness in adverse circumstances by constructing a large gun, the
famous Long Cecil--that he should be a victim. Labram dead! Was it a
fabrication? Alas! no; it was true; a sad, a lurid incident, hardly
needed to mark the day memorable. There was a pathetic strangeness in
the fatality that gave rise to philosophic reflections.

Emboldened by a conviction that we should presently be glad to
supplicate for food and quarter, the enemy relaxed not their energy. It
must not be supposed that our guns were idle all this time. Long Cecil
plied pluckily to hit back, and succeeded in frustrating the ambitious
efforts of the Boers to draw their guns still nearer. They were rather
too close as things were, however, and with the aid of the Maxims we
successfully besought the enemy to fling away ambition. To that limited
extent we defeated Boer designs. Lord Methuen's sympathetic coughs in
the bed of the Orange River were heard at intervals throughout the day,
the long, enervating day which did terminate at last. Worn out by its
trials though we were, sleep was not easily coaxed to weigh our eyelids
down; like other "necessaries," it was rare indeed.

Contrary to expectation, the ferocious assault was not resumed on
Saturday morning. It was a blessed interlude, too; there was so much to
whistle about with unbated breath. The prejudice against the Boers and
the arrogant gentlemen who led and fed us was at its fiercest. How was
it all going to end? A feeling of desperation, engendered by the
sufferings of their families, permeated men's hearts and filled them
with a readiness to dare much, to sacrifice a great deal. The situation
was critical, and many a reckless plan to ease it emanated from minds
normally prudent. The outcry against the Military rose to a high pitch;
the air was reeking with denunciations _apropos_ of their culpability
for--things in general. Their manipulation of the victuals, as I have
endeavoured to show, did not pre-possess many in their favour, and fresh
complaints in this connection were constantly forthcoming. Information
was being suppressed, we cried; our actual condition and circumstances
were being misrepresented; the notoriety of individual