ore men down, more men pushed into
the firing line--more death-piping bullets than ever. The air was a
sieve of them; they beat on the boulders like a million hammers; they
tore the turf like a harrow.

Another ridge crowned, another welcoming, whistling gust of perdition,
more men down, more pushed into the firing line. Half the officers were
down; the men puffed and stumbled on. Another ridge--God! Would this
cursed hill never end? It was sown with bleeding and dead behind; it was
edged with stinging fire before. God! Would it never end? On, and get to
the end of it! And now it was surely the end. The merry bugles rang out
like cock-crow on a fine morning. The pipes shrieked of blood and the
lust of glorious death. Fix bayonets! Staff officers rushed shouting
from the rear, imploring, cajoling, cursing, slamming every man who
could move into the line. Line--but it was a line no longer. It was a
surging wave of men--Devons and Gordons, Manchester and Light Horse all
mixed, inextricably; subalterns commanding regiments, soldiers yelling
advice, officers firing carbines, stumbling, leaping, killing, falling,
all drunk with battle, shoving through hell to the throat of the enemy.
And there beneath our feet was the Boer camp and the last Boers
galloping out of it. There also--thank Heaven, thank Heaven!--were
squadrons of Lancers and Dragoon Guards storming in among them,
shouting, spearing, stamping them into the ground. Cease fire!

It was over--twelve hours of march, of reconnaissance, of waiting, of
preparation, and half an hour of attack. But half an hour crammed with
the life of half a lifetime.

VII.

THE BIVOUAC.

A VICTORIOUS AND HELPLESS MOB--A BREAK-NECK HILLSIDE--BRINGING DOWN
THE WOUNDED--A HARD-WORKED DOCTOR--BOER PRISONERS--INDIAN
BEARERS--AN IRISH HIGHLANDER IN TROUBLE.

LADYSMITH, _Oct. 23._

Pursuing cavalry and pursued enemy faded out of our sight; abruptly we
realised that it was night. A mob of unassorted soldiers stood on the
rock-sown, man-sown hillside, victorious and helpless.

Out of every quarter of the blackness leaped rough voices. "G Company!"
"Devons here!" "Imperial Light Horse?" "Over here!" "Over where?" Then a
trip and a heavy stumble and an oath. "Doctor wanted 'ere! 'Elp for a
wounded orficer! Damn you there! who are you fallin' up against? This
is the Gordon 'Ighlanders--what's left of 'em."

Here and there an inkier blackness moving showed a unit that