t, 2000 more, who were
mostly ruined burghers, and who thus arrived at Delagoa Bay to become
like Kruger himself the guests or prisoners of the Portuguese.

To the Portuguese we ourselves owe no small debt of gratitude, for
they had sternly forbidden the destruction of the magnificent railway
bridge across the Koomati, in which their government held large
financial interests. But other destruction they could not hinder.

Just in front of us lay the superbly lovely junction of the Crocodile
with the Koomati River, and appropriately enough I then saw in
midstream, clinging to a rock, a real crocodile, though, like the two
Boer Republics, as dead as a door nail. Immediately beyond ran a ridge
of hills which served as the boundary between the Transvaal and the
Portuguese territory. Along that ridge floated a line of Portuguese
flags, and within just a few yards of them the ever-slim Boer had
planted some of his long-range guns, not that there he might make his
last valiant stand, but that from thence he might present our
approaching troops with a few parting shots. This final outrage on
their own flag our friendly neighbours forbade. So we discovered the
guns still in position but destroyed with dynamite. Thus finding not a
solitary soul left to dispute possession with us we somewhat
prematurely concluded that at last, through God's mercy, our toils
were ended, our warfare accomplished. What wonder therefore if in that
hour of bloodless triumph there were some whose hearts exclaimed, "We
praise Thee O God, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord!" To the God of
Battles the Boer had made his mutely stern appeal and with this
result.

[Sidenote: _Two notable Fugitives._]

The _Household Brigade Magazine_ tells an amusing story of a Guardsman
hailing from Ireland who at one of our base hospitals was supplied
with some wine as a most welcome "medical comfort." Therein right
loyally he drank the Queen's health, and then after a pause startled
his comrades by adding, "Here's to old Kruger! God bless him!" Such
a disloyal sentiment, so soon tripping up the heels of his own
loyalty, called forth loud and angry protests, whereupon he exclaimed,
"Why not? Only for him where would the war be? And only for him I
would never have sent my old mother the Queen's chocolate!"

The Queen's chocolate is not the only bit of compensating sweetness
begotten out of the bitterness of this war. The fiery hostility of
Kruger, like the quenchless ha