while in the distance rose a
range of blue hills, at the foot of which we could perceive the roofs of
Zeerust.

As the sun was almost sinking, clouds of dust arose on the road in
front, denoting a large body of men or waggons moving. A few weeks--nay,
days--ago these would have been a burgher commando; now we knew they
were our friends, and presently we met Major Weston Jarvis and his
dust-begrimed squadron of the Rhodesian Regiment, followed by a large
number of transport waggons, driven cattle, and donkeys. This living
testimony that war was still present in the land only disturbed the
peaceful evening landscape till the long line of dust had disappeared;
then all was stillness and beauty once more. The young moon came out,
the stars twinkled in the dark blue heavens, and suddenly, below the dim
range of hills, shone first one light and then another; while away to
the left, on higher ground, camp-fires, softened by a halo of white
smoke, came into view. The scene was very picturesque. No cloud
obscured the star-bespangled sky or the crescent of the Queen of the
Night. Still far away, the lights of the little town were a beacon to
guide us. The noise and cries of the camp were carried to us on the
gentlest of night breezes, and, to complete the calm beauty of the
surroundings, the deep, slow chime of a church-bell struck our ears.

We had reached our destination, and were in a few minutes driving
through the quiet little street, pulling up in front of the Central
Hotel, kept by a colonial Englishman and his wife. The former had been
commandeered twice during the war, but he hastened to assure us that,
though he had been at the laager, and even in the trenches before
Mafeking, he had never let off his rifle, and had given it up with great
pleasure to the English only the day before. This old-fashioned hostelry
was very comfortable and commodious, with excellent cooking, but it was
not till the next day that we realized how pretty was the town of
Zeerust, and how charmingly situated. The houses, standing back from the
wide road, were surrounded by neat little gardens and rows of cypresses.
Looking down the main street, in either direction, were purple,
tree-covered hills. A stream wound its way across one end of the
highway, and teams of sleepy fat oxen with bells completed the illusion
that we had suddenly been transported into a town of Northern Italy or
of the Lower Engadine. However, other circumstances contributed