rivolous, and enfeebled nation shall rule over
you any longer. Be ready, for the day is at hand. `Africa for the
Afrikanders!' is our watchword, and the flag that shall wave over that
United Africa is this."

With the celerity of a conjurer he produced the four-coloured flag of
the Transvaal Republic, and with one fierce jerk of the hand unfurling
it, he waved it above his head. Instantly every hat was off, and round
after round of deafening cheering hailed the symbol. Then, led by the
emissary himself, the whole assembly struck up the "Volkslied," the
national hymn of the Transvaal, roaring it forth in a manner that left
nothing to be desired in the way of fervour, but much in the way of time
and tune, and which must have impressed the numerous baboons infesting
the crags and krantzes of the surrounding Wildschutsbergen with the
instinct that it was high time to quit that section of country, never to
return.

When the singing and cheering had subsided the emissary invited any of
those present to express their opinions, but few cared to do so. One or
two of the old men got up, but their remarks were mere quavering
comments--interspersed with pious aspirations--upon all that the speaker
had said, and fell woefully flat after the fiery periods and power of
eloquence of the delegate from Pretoria. And the secret of that power
lay in the fact that the man was so terribly in earnest. No
timeserving, self-seeking stump-agitator was Andries Botma. Every word
he uttered he implicitly believed, and that the whole Dutch race in
South Africa were under special Divine protection, and the Anglo-Saxon
under the Divine curse, he no more doubted than that the sky was above
and the earth beneath. Though a hopelessly fanatical patriot, he was
essentially an honest one, and this his hearers knew.

The _predikant_ having made a speech to high Heaven, in the guise of a
long prayer thoroughly in accordance with the prevailing sentiment of
the meeting, the latter broke up. A few, mostly the older men, remained
behind, talking over the ideas they had just heard with all seriousness,
but most of them had crowded into another room where Vrouw Grobbelaar,
aided by her trio of fine and rather pretty daughters, was dispensing
coffee and other refreshment. These, too, were talking over the
situation, but with a breezy boisterousness which was absent in their
elders.

"It's coming now, Tanta, it's coming now," cried one young fellow,