not even when the
balloon, fresh charged at the gas-works, stalked past us like a ghost.

_December 7, 1899._

A glorious day for the heliograph, which flashed encouragement on us
from that far-off mountain. But little else was done. The bombardment
was only half-hearted. Some of the shells pitched about the town,
smashing walls and windows, and two of the Irish Fusiliers were wounded
by shrapnel. Towards evening a lot of children in white dresses were
playing among the rocks opposite my window, when "Puffing Billy," of
Bulwan, sent a huge shell over my roof right into the midst of them as
it seemed. Fortunately it pitched a few yards too high. The poor little
creatures scuttled away like rabbits. They are having a queer
education--a kindergarten training in physical shocks.

During the day I rode nearly all over the camp and outposts, even
getting to Waggon Hill again to see the enemy at their old trick of
calling the cattle home with shells. There I heard that the 6 in. gun on
Middle Hill was removed last evening, and that was the cause of the two
shots I had heard as I left. Our gunners detected the movement too late
to prevent it, and the destination of the gun is unknown.

_December 8, 1899._

The brightest day of the siege so far. The secret was admirably kept.
Outside three or four of the General Staff, not a soul knew what was to
happen. At 10 p.m. on Thursday an officer left me for his bed; a
quarter of an hour later he was marching with his squadron upon the
unknown adventure. It was one of the finest and most successful things
done in the war, but what I most admire about it is its secrecy. The
honours go to the Volunteers. One regrets the exclusion of the Regulars
after all their splendid service and cheery temper, but the Volunteers
are more distinctly under Headquarter control, and it was thought best
not to pass the orders through the brigades. Accordingly just after ten
certain troops of the Imperial Light Horse, under Colonel Edwards, the
Natal Carbineers, and Border Mounted Rifles, all under the command of
Colonel Royston, suddenly received orders to march on foot along the
Helpmakaar road. About 600 went, though only 200 of them actually took
part in the final enterprise.

The moon was quarter full, but clouded, giving just enough light to see
the road and no more. The small column advanced in perfect silence. Not
a whisper was heard or a light seen. After long weeks of grumbling