that 'push' to, and its name is Stellenbosch!"

But if the Mount Nelson Light Horse couldn't fight, they could talk.
They were full of second-hand blood. Had not a troop of theirs been
captured by De Wet, had not their men and officer witnessed De Wet's
cold-blooded outrage upon a British officer! All this was news to the
New Cavalry Brigade, and in view of a popular desire to lionise De
Wet, it will not be ill-advised to put the history of his action upon
record. We will not refer to the cruel murder of Morgenthal,
precedented in modern history by the murder of Macnaghten by Ackbar
Khan, or the pitiless treatment of the prisoners taken at Dewetsdorp
in December 1900. To us this one incident is sufficient. When De Wet
crossed to the south of the Orange River in the vicinity of Norval's
Pont the troops which Lyttelton set in operation against him from
Colesberg were too late to head him, and in the course of his
doubling--and De Wet broke back with considerable skill--he captured a
small proportion of his pursuers. These men having been pilfered of
much of their wearing apparel, including boots, could only with the
greatest difficulty keep pace with the rapid movements of their
captors. It must be remembered that the sleuth-hound, Plumer, was on
De Wet's trail, and the Boers had no time to waste if they were to
evade him. There came a time when the half-starved, almost naked, and
footsore prisoners could move no more. All the food that they had been
given was in live kind,--sheep that they had to kill, quarter, and
dress themselves. Cooking was out of the question, as the elements
were against them, even if they had possessed the necessary
appliances. Half-way through an exhausting march--flight would perhaps
better describe the nature of the movement--these wretched prisoners
lay down, and refused to move another foot. The threats and chiding of
their escort were in vain. Then some one rode forward and informed De
Wet. The guerilla captain galloped back to the tail of the column,
and, worked up into a paroxysm of rage, demanded the senior officer
amongst the British prisoners. A tall English gentleman stepped
forward.[31] In a moment the guerilla's arm was raised, and the cruel
sjambok of rhinoceros-hide fell across the Englishman's face, leaving
a great blue weal. The arm was raised for a second blow; but the
Englishman, prisoner though he was, and though his life hung in the
balance, closed with his brutal captor. Ot