ough a trap-door, under the floor as soon as a soldier or official
entered the gate.

When darkness fell he left his cramped hiding-place, and gliding
unseen through the house and yard, this weary prisoner occupied
himself with exercises for the preservation of his health, running,
jumping, standing on his head, and plying the skipping-rope
vigorously, under the protecting shadows of the dark cypress trees.

The weeks went by, broken once by the intense excitement of a visit of
one of the burghers from the field.

Mrs. Celliers' brother, M. Duerr, had crept into town at dead of night
between the British sentinels on a dangerous mission for the Boers. A
short week he spent with his brother-in-law, sharing his confinement
and making plans for his escape. Then he was gone, and the old deadly
monotony settled over the house once more.

July went by, and August was nearly spent when at last an opportunity
presented itself, and Mr. Celliers, in woman's garb, bade wife and
children a passionate farewell, not to see them again for nearly two
years.

With a cloak over his shoulders and a high collar concealing his
closely cropped hair, his wife's skirt on, and a heavy veil covering a
straw hat, he stepped boldly into a small vehicle standing waiting
before his gate and drove through the streets of Pretoria. For the
time at least he too belonged to the "Petticoat Commando." Mrs. Malan
was in the cart, and had been sent by Mrs. Joubert to escort him
through the town.

The disguise was taken before a thought could be given to the possible
consequences of such a step. Spurred by the heroic attitude and fine
courage displayed by his wife, Mr. Celliers lost not a moment in
availing himself of the long-looked-for opportunity.

The thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes he went through in
that memorable flight for duty and freedom will no doubt be found
accurately recorded in his book on the war, which I know to be "in the
making" at the present moment. Suffice it to say that he reached the
farm of a friend near Silkatsnek in safety, where, he had been
informed, he would find Boer commandos in the neighbourhood.

Disappointment awaited him, however. The commando had withdrawn to the
north, followed closely by thousands of British troops whose proximity
to the farm made it dangerous, not only for him, but for the people
who harboured him, to remain there longer than one night. A farm-hand,
a trusted native servant, was as