BERESFORD
PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME
CATHERINE COTTON RUTHERFORD CROCKETT RUTHERFORD CROCKETT
WALTER DE LA MARE
WALTER DE LA MARE MRS.
PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME PHYLLIS BOTTOME
CATHERINE COTTON RUTHERFORD CROCKETT RUTHERFORD CROCKETT
WALTER DE LA MARE
WALTER DE LA MARE MRS.
Fletcher - Lucian the Dreamer
He knew that the drunken man had voiced the prevalent sentiment.
He looked round him, with- out reproach, without defiance, and walked quietly
Q
242
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
trom the room and the house. He had suddenly real- ised the true complexion of things.
Next morning, as he sat over a late breakfast in his rooms, he was informed that a young gentleman who would give no name desired earnestly to see him. He was feeling somewhat bored that morning, and he bade his man show the unknown one in. He looked up from his coffee to behold a very young gentleman upon whom the word subaltern was written in very large letters, whose youthful face was very grim and earnest, and who was obviously a young man with a mission. He pulled himself up in stiff fashion as the door closed upon him, and Lucian observed that one hand evi-
dently grasped something his back.
which was concealed behind
' Mr. Lucian Damerel? ' the young gentleman with polite interrogation.
said,
Lucian bowed and looked equally interrogative. His visitor glowered upon him.
' I have come to tell you that you are a damned scoundrel, Mr. Lucian Damerel,' he said, ' and to thrash you within an inch of your beastly life! '
Lucian stared, smiled, and rose lazily from his seat.
The visitor displayed a cutting-whip, brandished it, and advanced as seriously as if he were on parade. Lucian met him, seized the cutting-whip in one hand and his assailant's collar in the other, disarmed him, shook him, and threw him lightly into an easy-chair, where he lay gasping and surprised. Lucian hung the cutting-whip on the wall. He looked at his visitor with a speculative gaze.
' What shall I do with you, young sir? ' he said. ' Throw you out of the window, or grill you on the fire, or merely kick you downstairs? I suppose you
thought that because I happen to be what your lot call " a writin' feller," there wouldn't be any spunk in me, eh? '
The visitor was placed in a strange predicament. He had expected the sweet savour of groans and tears
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
243
a muscleless, flabby ink-and-parchment thing: this man had hands which could grip Hke steel and
frorrn
Moreover, he was cool—he actually sat down again and continued his breakfast.
iron.
* I hope I didn't squeeze your throat too much,' said Lucian politely. ' I have a nasty trick of forgetting
If you feel shaken, help yourself to a brandy and soda, and then
that my hands are abnormally developed.
tell me what's the matter. '
The youth shook his head hopelessly.
' Y—you have insulted the Army ! ' he stammered at
last.
* Of which, I take it, you are the self-appointed
Well, I'm afraid I don't plead guilty, because, you see, I know myself rather better than you
champion.
know me. But you came to punish me? Well, again, you see you can't do that. Shall I give you satisfaction of some sort? There are pistols in that cabinet —shall we shoot at each other across the table? There are rapiers in the cupboard—shall we try to prick each other? '
The young gentleman in the easy-chair grew more and more uncomfortable. He was being made ridicul-
ous, and the man was laughing at him.
' I have heard of the tricks of foreign
duellists,' he
said rudely.
Lucian 's face flushed.
' That was ' a silly thing to say, my boy,' he said, not
unkindly. Most men would throw you out of the window for it. As it is, I'll let you oft easy. You'll find some gloves in that cupboard—get them out and take your coat off. I'm not an Englishman, as you just now reminded me in very pointed fashion, but I can use my fists. '
Then he took off his dressing-gown and rolled up his sleeves, and the youngster, who had spent many unholy hours in practising the noble art, looked at the poet's muscles with a knowing eye and realised that he was in for a very pretty scrap. He was a Uttle vain of his own
244
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
prowess, and fought for all he was worth, but at the end of five minutes he was a well-licked man, and at the expiration of ten was glad to be allowed to put on his coat and go.
Lucian flung his gloves into the comer of the room with a hearty curse. He stroked the satiny skin under which his muscle rippled smoothly. He had the arm of a blacksmith, and had always been proud of it. The remark of the drunken man came back to him. That was what they thought of him, was it? —that he was a mere slinger of ink, afraid of spilling his blood or suffering discomfort for the courage of his convictions? Well, they should see. England had gone mad with
the lust of blood and domination, and after all he was not her son. He had discharged whatever debt he owed her. To the real England, the true England that had fallen on sleep, he would explain everything, when the awakening came. It would be no crime to shoulder a rifle and strap a bandolier around one's shoulders in order to help the weak against the strong. He had fought with his pen, taking what he beheved to be the right and honest course, in the endeavour to convert
people who would not be converted, and who regarded his efforts as evidences of enmity. Very well: there seemed now to be but one straight path, and he would take it.
It was remembered afterwards as a great thing in Lucian's favour that he made no fuss about his next step. , He left London very quietly, and no one knew that he was setting out to join the men whom he honestly believed to be fighting for the best principles of liberty and freedom.
CHAPTER
XXXI
When the war broke out, Saxonstowe and his wife, after nearly three years of globe-trotting, were in Natal, where they had been studying the conditions of native labour. Saxonstowe, who had made himself well acquainted with the state of affairs m South Africa, knew that the coming struggle would be long and bitter
He and his wife entered into a discussion as to which they were to do: stay there, or return to England.
Sprats knew quite well what was in Saxonstowe s mind, and she unhesitatingly declared for South Africa. Then Saxonstowe, who had a new book on hand, put his work aside, and set the wires going, and within a few hours had been appointed special correspondent ot one of the London newspapers, with the prospect of hard
work and exciting times before him. Saxonstowe, ' And what am I to do? ' inquired Lady
inward thankfukiess that he was a rich man.
Before they knew where they were. Lord and Lady Saxonstowe were shut up in Ladysmith, and for one
of them at least there was not so much to do as he had anticipated, for there became little to record but the story of hope deferred, of gradual starvation, and ot death and disease. But Sprats worked double tides, unflinchingly and untiringly, and ahnost forgot that she had a husband who chafed because he could not get more than an occasional word over the wires to England.
At the end of the siege she was as gaunt as a far-travelled gypsy, and as brown, but her courage was as great as ever and her resolution just as strong. One day she received an ovation from a mighty concourse that sent
and answered her own question
* There wih be sick and wounded— m plenty, she said. * I shall organise a field-hospital,' and she went to work with great vigour and spent her husband's money with
before he could reply.
246
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
her, frightened and trembling, to shelter; when she emerged into the light of day again it was only to begin
reorganising her work in preparation for still more ardu- ous duties. The tide of war rolled on northwards, and Sprats followed, picking up the bruised and shattered jetsam which it flung to her. She had never indulged in questionings or speculations as to the rights or wrongs of the war. Her first sight of a wounded man had aroused all the old mothering instinct in her, and because she had no baby of her own she took every
man, Boer or Briton, into her arms and mothered him.
wounded
CHAPTER XXXII
A HUDDLED mass of fugitives—men, women, children, horses, cattle—crowded together in the dry bed of a river, seeking shelter amongst rocks and boulders and under shelving banks, subjected continually to a hurri- cane of shot and shell, choked by the fumes of the exploding Lyddite, poisoned by the stench of blood, saturated all through with the indescribable odour of death. Somewhere in its midst, caged like a rat, but still sulkily defiant, the peasant general fingered his
switch as he looked this way and that and saw no further chance of escape. In the distance, calmly waiting the inevitable end, the little man with the weather-beaten face and the grey moustaches hstened to the never- ceasing roar of his cannon demanding insistently the word of surrender that must needs come.
Saxonstowe, lying on a waterproof sheet on the floor of his tent, was writing on a board propped up in front of him. All that he wrote was by way of expressing his wonder, over and over again, that Cronje should hold out so long against the hell of fire which was playing in and around his last refuge. He was trying to realise what must be going on in the river bed, and the thought made him sick. Near him, writing on an upturned box, was another special correspondent who shared the
tent with him; outside, poHshing tin pannikins because he had nothing else to do, was a Cockney lad whom these two had picked up in Ladysmith and had attached as body-servant. He was always willing and always cheerful, and had a trick of singing snatches of popular songs in a desultory and disconnected way. His raucous voice came to them under the booming of the guns.
' Ow, 'ee's little but 'ee's wise, 'Ee's a terror for 'is size,
247
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
An' 'ee does not hadvertise: Do yer, Bobs? '
* What a voice that chap has ! ' said Saxonstowe's companion. 'It's like a wheel that hasn't been oiled for months! '
* Will yer kindly put a penny in my little tambourine, For a gentleman in khaki ordered sou-outh? '
chanted the poUsher of tin pans.
' They have a saying in Yorkshire, ' remarked Saxon-
stowe, ' to the effect that it's a poor heart that never
248
rejoices. '
' This chap must have a good
'un, then,' said the
other. Give us a pipeful of tobacco, will' Saxonstowe? Lord! will those guns never stop ?
' For the colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady, Are sisters hunder their skins,'
you,
sang the henchman.
* Will our vocalist never stop? ' said Saxonstowe,
handing over his pouch. ' He seems as unconcerned as if he were on a Bank Holiday. '
* We wos as 'appy as could be, that dye, —' Dahn at the Welsh 'Arp, which is 'Endon
The raucous voice broke off suddenly; the close- cropped Cockney head showed at the open flap of the
tent. sir,' said the
' Beg pardon, Cockney
'
but I
voice,
fink there's somethin' 'appened, sir—guns is dyin' orf,
sir. '
Saxonstowe and his fellow scribe sprang to their feet.
The roar of the cannon was dying gradually away, and it suddenly gave place to a strange and an awful silence.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 249
Saxonstowe walked hither and thither about the bed of the river, turning his head jerkily to right and left.
'It's a shambles! — a shambles! — a shambles! he kept repeating. He shook his head and then his body as if he wanted to shake off the impression that was fast
stamping itself ineffaceably upon him. A shambles !
j
He pulled himself together and looked around him. It seemed to him that earth and sky were blotted out
he said again. , -, , -,
u-
in blood and fire, and that the smell of death had wrapped him so closely that he would never breathe freely again. Dead and dying men were everywhere. Near him rose a pile of what appeared to be freshly slaughtered meat—it was merely the result of the burst- ing of a Lyddite shell amongst a span of oxen. Near
him, too, stood a girl, young, not uncomely, with a bullet-wound showing in her white bosom from which she had just torn the bodice away; at his feet, amongst the boulders, were twisted, strange, grotesque shapes that had once been human bodies.
* There's a chap here that looks like an Enghshman,
j Saxonstowe turned, and found the man who shared his tent standing at his elbow, and pointed to a body
said a voice behind him. ,
i.
stretched out a yard or two away— the body of a well- formed man who had fallen on his side, shot through
his face half hidden in his arm-pit; near him, within reach of the nerveless fingers that had torn out a divot of turf in his last
and statuesque in death, caught the sunlight that straggled fitfully through the smoke-clouds which still
the heart. He lay as if asleep,
moment's spasmodic feeling for something to clutch at, lay his rifle: round his rough serge jacket was clasped a bandolier well stored with cartridges. His broad- brimmed hat had fallen off, and half his face, very white
curled over the bed of the river.
* Looks like an Englishman,' repeated
the special * Look at his hands, too—he hasn't
correspondent.
handled a rifle very long, I'm thinking. '
250
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
with perfunctory interest—there were so many dead men lying all about
in the dead man's face woke a chord in his memory : he went nearer and bent over him. His
Saxonstowe glanced
at the body
him. Something
brain was sick and dizzy with the horrors of the blood
and the stink of the slaughter. winked his eyes rapidly.
He stood up again, and
' No!
be—of course it can't be. What should Lucian be doing here? Of course it's' not he—it's mere imagina-
' No, no ! ' he heard himself saying. !
tion—mere im-ag-in-a-tion ' ' Here, hold up, old chap !
said his companion, pull- ing out a flask. ' Take a nip of that. Better? Hallo
—what's going on there? '
He stepped on a boulder and gazed in the direction
of a wagon round which some commotion was evident. Saxonstowe, without another glance at the dead man, stepped up beside him.
He saw a roughly built, rugged-faced man, wrapped in a much-worn overcoat that had grown green with age, stepping out across the plain, swishing at the herbage with a switch which jerked nervously in his hand. At his side strode a muscular-looking woman, hard of feature, brown of skin—a peasant wife in a faded skirt and a crumpled sun-bonnet. Near them marched a tall British officer in khaki; other Boers and
British, a group of curious contrasts, hedged them
down from the boulder. thank God! '
It can't
round.
' That's Cronje,' said the special correspondent,
stepped
The conquered was on his way to the conqueror.
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Q
242
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
trom the room and the house. He had suddenly real- ised the true complexion of things.
Next morning, as he sat over a late breakfast in his rooms, he was informed that a young gentleman who would give no name desired earnestly to see him. He was feeling somewhat bored that morning, and he bade his man show the unknown one in. He looked up from his coffee to behold a very young gentleman upon whom the word subaltern was written in very large letters, whose youthful face was very grim and earnest, and who was obviously a young man with a mission. He pulled himself up in stiff fashion as the door closed upon him, and Lucian observed that one hand evi-
dently grasped something his back.
which was concealed behind
' Mr. Lucian Damerel? ' the young gentleman with polite interrogation.
said,
Lucian bowed and looked equally interrogative. His visitor glowered upon him.
' I have come to tell you that you are a damned scoundrel, Mr. Lucian Damerel,' he said, ' and to thrash you within an inch of your beastly life! '
Lucian stared, smiled, and rose lazily from his seat.
The visitor displayed a cutting-whip, brandished it, and advanced as seriously as if he were on parade. Lucian met him, seized the cutting-whip in one hand and his assailant's collar in the other, disarmed him, shook him, and threw him lightly into an easy-chair, where he lay gasping and surprised. Lucian hung the cutting-whip on the wall. He looked at his visitor with a speculative gaze.
' What shall I do with you, young sir? ' he said. ' Throw you out of the window, or grill you on the fire, or merely kick you downstairs? I suppose you
thought that because I happen to be what your lot call " a writin' feller," there wouldn't be any spunk in me, eh? '
The visitor was placed in a strange predicament. He had expected the sweet savour of groans and tears
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
243
a muscleless, flabby ink-and-parchment thing: this man had hands which could grip Hke steel and
frorrn
Moreover, he was cool—he actually sat down again and continued his breakfast.
iron.
* I hope I didn't squeeze your throat too much,' said Lucian politely. ' I have a nasty trick of forgetting
If you feel shaken, help yourself to a brandy and soda, and then
that my hands are abnormally developed.
tell me what's the matter. '
The youth shook his head hopelessly.
' Y—you have insulted the Army ! ' he stammered at
last.
* Of which, I take it, you are the self-appointed
Well, I'm afraid I don't plead guilty, because, you see, I know myself rather better than you
champion.
know me. But you came to punish me? Well, again, you see you can't do that. Shall I give you satisfaction of some sort? There are pistols in that cabinet —shall we shoot at each other across the table? There are rapiers in the cupboard—shall we try to prick each other? '
The young gentleman in the easy-chair grew more and more uncomfortable. He was being made ridicul-
ous, and the man was laughing at him.
' I have heard of the tricks of foreign
duellists,' he
said rudely.
Lucian 's face flushed.
' That was ' a silly thing to say, my boy,' he said, not
unkindly. Most men would throw you out of the window for it. As it is, I'll let you oft easy. You'll find some gloves in that cupboard—get them out and take your coat off. I'm not an Englishman, as you just now reminded me in very pointed fashion, but I can use my fists. '
Then he took off his dressing-gown and rolled up his sleeves, and the youngster, who had spent many unholy hours in practising the noble art, looked at the poet's muscles with a knowing eye and realised that he was in for a very pretty scrap. He was a Uttle vain of his own
244
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
prowess, and fought for all he was worth, but at the end of five minutes he was a well-licked man, and at the expiration of ten was glad to be allowed to put on his coat and go.
Lucian flung his gloves into the comer of the room with a hearty curse. He stroked the satiny skin under which his muscle rippled smoothly. He had the arm of a blacksmith, and had always been proud of it. The remark of the drunken man came back to him. That was what they thought of him, was it? —that he was a mere slinger of ink, afraid of spilling his blood or suffering discomfort for the courage of his convictions? Well, they should see. England had gone mad with
the lust of blood and domination, and after all he was not her son. He had discharged whatever debt he owed her. To the real England, the true England that had fallen on sleep, he would explain everything, when the awakening came. It would be no crime to shoulder a rifle and strap a bandolier around one's shoulders in order to help the weak against the strong. He had fought with his pen, taking what he beheved to be the right and honest course, in the endeavour to convert
people who would not be converted, and who regarded his efforts as evidences of enmity. Very well: there seemed now to be but one straight path, and he would take it.
It was remembered afterwards as a great thing in Lucian's favour that he made no fuss about his next step. , He left London very quietly, and no one knew that he was setting out to join the men whom he honestly believed to be fighting for the best principles of liberty and freedom.
CHAPTER
XXXI
When the war broke out, Saxonstowe and his wife, after nearly three years of globe-trotting, were in Natal, where they had been studying the conditions of native labour. Saxonstowe, who had made himself well acquainted with the state of affairs m South Africa, knew that the coming struggle would be long and bitter
He and his wife entered into a discussion as to which they were to do: stay there, or return to England.
Sprats knew quite well what was in Saxonstowe s mind, and she unhesitatingly declared for South Africa. Then Saxonstowe, who had a new book on hand, put his work aside, and set the wires going, and within a few hours had been appointed special correspondent ot one of the London newspapers, with the prospect of hard
work and exciting times before him. Saxonstowe, ' And what am I to do? ' inquired Lady
inward thankfukiess that he was a rich man.
Before they knew where they were. Lord and Lady Saxonstowe were shut up in Ladysmith, and for one
of them at least there was not so much to do as he had anticipated, for there became little to record but the story of hope deferred, of gradual starvation, and ot death and disease. But Sprats worked double tides, unflinchingly and untiringly, and ahnost forgot that she had a husband who chafed because he could not get more than an occasional word over the wires to England.
At the end of the siege she was as gaunt as a far-travelled gypsy, and as brown, but her courage was as great as ever and her resolution just as strong. One day she received an ovation from a mighty concourse that sent
and answered her own question
* There wih be sick and wounded— m plenty, she said. * I shall organise a field-hospital,' and she went to work with great vigour and spent her husband's money with
before he could reply.
246
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
her, frightened and trembling, to shelter; when she emerged into the light of day again it was only to begin
reorganising her work in preparation for still more ardu- ous duties. The tide of war rolled on northwards, and Sprats followed, picking up the bruised and shattered jetsam which it flung to her. She had never indulged in questionings or speculations as to the rights or wrongs of the war. Her first sight of a wounded man had aroused all the old mothering instinct in her, and because she had no baby of her own she took every
man, Boer or Briton, into her arms and mothered him.
wounded
CHAPTER XXXII
A HUDDLED mass of fugitives—men, women, children, horses, cattle—crowded together in the dry bed of a river, seeking shelter amongst rocks and boulders and under shelving banks, subjected continually to a hurri- cane of shot and shell, choked by the fumes of the exploding Lyddite, poisoned by the stench of blood, saturated all through with the indescribable odour of death. Somewhere in its midst, caged like a rat, but still sulkily defiant, the peasant general fingered his
switch as he looked this way and that and saw no further chance of escape. In the distance, calmly waiting the inevitable end, the little man with the weather-beaten face and the grey moustaches hstened to the never- ceasing roar of his cannon demanding insistently the word of surrender that must needs come.
Saxonstowe, lying on a waterproof sheet on the floor of his tent, was writing on a board propped up in front of him. All that he wrote was by way of expressing his wonder, over and over again, that Cronje should hold out so long against the hell of fire which was playing in and around his last refuge. He was trying to realise what must be going on in the river bed, and the thought made him sick. Near him, writing on an upturned box, was another special correspondent who shared the
tent with him; outside, poHshing tin pannikins because he had nothing else to do, was a Cockney lad whom these two had picked up in Ladysmith and had attached as body-servant. He was always willing and always cheerful, and had a trick of singing snatches of popular songs in a desultory and disconnected way. His raucous voice came to them under the booming of the guns.
' Ow, 'ee's little but 'ee's wise, 'Ee's a terror for 'is size,
247
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
An' 'ee does not hadvertise: Do yer, Bobs? '
* What a voice that chap has ! ' said Saxonstowe's companion. 'It's like a wheel that hasn't been oiled for months! '
* Will yer kindly put a penny in my little tambourine, For a gentleman in khaki ordered sou-outh? '
chanted the poUsher of tin pans.
' They have a saying in Yorkshire, ' remarked Saxon-
stowe, ' to the effect that it's a poor heart that never
248
rejoices. '
' This chap must have a good
'un, then,' said the
other. Give us a pipeful of tobacco, will' Saxonstowe? Lord! will those guns never stop ?
' For the colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady, Are sisters hunder their skins,'
you,
sang the henchman.
* Will our vocalist never stop? ' said Saxonstowe,
handing over his pouch. ' He seems as unconcerned as if he were on a Bank Holiday. '
* We wos as 'appy as could be, that dye, —' Dahn at the Welsh 'Arp, which is 'Endon
The raucous voice broke off suddenly; the close- cropped Cockney head showed at the open flap of the
tent. sir,' said the
' Beg pardon, Cockney
'
but I
voice,
fink there's somethin' 'appened, sir—guns is dyin' orf,
sir. '
Saxonstowe and his fellow scribe sprang to their feet.
The roar of the cannon was dying gradually away, and it suddenly gave place to a strange and an awful silence.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 249
Saxonstowe walked hither and thither about the bed of the river, turning his head jerkily to right and left.
'It's a shambles! — a shambles! — a shambles! he kept repeating. He shook his head and then his body as if he wanted to shake off the impression that was fast
stamping itself ineffaceably upon him. A shambles !
j
He pulled himself together and looked around him. It seemed to him that earth and sky were blotted out
he said again. , -, , -,
u-
in blood and fire, and that the smell of death had wrapped him so closely that he would never breathe freely again. Dead and dying men were everywhere. Near him rose a pile of what appeared to be freshly slaughtered meat—it was merely the result of the burst- ing of a Lyddite shell amongst a span of oxen. Near
him, too, stood a girl, young, not uncomely, with a bullet-wound showing in her white bosom from which she had just torn the bodice away; at his feet, amongst the boulders, were twisted, strange, grotesque shapes that had once been human bodies.
* There's a chap here that looks like an Enghshman,
j Saxonstowe turned, and found the man who shared his tent standing at his elbow, and pointed to a body
said a voice behind him. ,
i.
stretched out a yard or two away— the body of a well- formed man who had fallen on his side, shot through
his face half hidden in his arm-pit; near him, within reach of the nerveless fingers that had torn out a divot of turf in his last
and statuesque in death, caught the sunlight that straggled fitfully through the smoke-clouds which still
the heart. He lay as if asleep,
moment's spasmodic feeling for something to clutch at, lay his rifle: round his rough serge jacket was clasped a bandolier well stored with cartridges. His broad- brimmed hat had fallen off, and half his face, very white
curled over the bed of the river.
* Looks like an Englishman,' repeated
the special * Look at his hands, too—he hasn't
correspondent.
handled a rifle very long, I'm thinking. '
250
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
with perfunctory interest—there were so many dead men lying all about
in the dead man's face woke a chord in his memory : he went nearer and bent over him. His
Saxonstowe glanced
at the body
him. Something
brain was sick and dizzy with the horrors of the blood
and the stink of the slaughter. winked his eyes rapidly.
He stood up again, and
' No!
be—of course it can't be. What should Lucian be doing here? Of course it's' not he—it's mere imagina-
' No, no ! ' he heard himself saying. !
tion—mere im-ag-in-a-tion ' ' Here, hold up, old chap !
said his companion, pull- ing out a flask. ' Take a nip of that. Better? Hallo
—what's going on there? '
He stepped on a boulder and gazed in the direction
of a wagon round which some commotion was evident. Saxonstowe, without another glance at the dead man, stepped up beside him.
He saw a roughly built, rugged-faced man, wrapped in a much-worn overcoat that had grown green with age, stepping out across the plain, swishing at the herbage with a switch which jerked nervously in his hand. At his side strode a muscular-looking woman, hard of feature, brown of skin—a peasant wife in a faded skirt and a crumpled sun-bonnet. Near them marched a tall British officer in khaki; other Boers and
British, a group of curious contrasts, hedged them
down from the boulder. thank God! '
It can't
round.
' That's Cronje,' said the special correspondent,
stepped
The conquered was on his way to the conqueror.
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