above the serrated crest of Rifleman's Ridge, which is
generally but too vaguely described as Blaauwbank, where the Boers have
at least one powerful field-gun mounted. Under a responsive flag of
truce Major Marling and a non-commissioned officer advanced to parley
with the enemy, whose pacific, if not submissive, spirit was thus
manifested. The field-cornet in charge said he understood there were to
be no hostilities that day. The English officer knew nothing of any
armistice, but agreed to retire without pushing the patrol farther in
that particular direction. As he and his comrades went back to join
their main body, Boer sharpshooters opened fire on them treacherously
from the rocks and sangars of Rifleman's Ridge. It is difficult to
understand such wanton violations of every principle recognised by
civilised belligerents, unless we assume that the Boers really thought
that their General had claimed a truce in order that his dead might be
buried, and that our cavalry were therefore at fault. It is, however,
impossible to find excuses, or give the Boers credit for good intentions
always in their use of the white flag. They seem to regard it as an
emblem to be hoisted for their own convenience or safety, and to be put
aside when its purpose has been served, without any consideration for
the other party. Even while this Boer officer pretended to think there
was a general truce that forbade scouting operations on our part there
was a gun being got into position by men of the same commando, and other
of the enemy's batteries were being either strengthened or moved to more
advantageous points. The work was, however, interrupted by a furious
thunderstorm and a night of heavy rain that brought the waters roaring
down from the Drakensberg ravines to flood the Klip River far above the
level at which some of its spruits can be crossed without difficulty at
other times.

English people, as a rule, picture early summer in South Africa as a
time of heat and drought. According to the calendar this is Natal's
summer, when hills and veldt, refreshed by genial showers, should be
green with luxurious growth of young grass, or brightened by a profusion
of brilliant wild flowers. But the seasons are out of joint just now. We
get days of torrid heat, bringing a plague of flies from which there is
no escape, and then a sudden thunderstorm sends the temperature down to
something that reminds one of chill October among English moorlands. The