, and addresses the
townspeople, congratulating them on their loyalty, announcing the
speedy end of the war, hinting at the hosts of British soon to be
expected, and praising the Mayor, a brother of General Cronje, for his
wise foresight in submitting; in return for which he said he would try
to obtain the release of the General from Lord Roberts. The troop is
then escorted by a frantic populace to their camping ground; willing
hands off-saddle the horses, while others ply the tired heroes with
refreshments. The town is in transports of joy. Days pass. The news
spreads, and burghers come in from all sides to deliver up their arms
to the Captain. He soon has no fewer than twelve hundred rifles, of
which he makes a glorious bonfire, thus disarming at one stroke a
number of Boers fifty times greater than his own force. There is no
sign of the overwhelming forces of the British, but their early
arrival is daily predicted, and the delay explained away. Meanwhile,
the twenty-one live in clover, eating and drinking the best of
everything, and overwhelmed with offers of marriage from adoring
maidens. Luxury threatens to sap their manhood. Guards and patrols are
unsteady in their gait; vigilance slackens. A grand concert is given
one night, during which the whole army of occupation is inside one
room. Two guards are outside, but these are Dutch police. At this
moment a handful of determined enemies could have ended the
occupation, and re-hoisted the Boer flag. Weeks pass, still the
British do not come, but the twenty-one hold sway, no doubt by virtue
of the moral superiority of the dominant race.

But at last their whole edifice of empire tumbles into ruin with the
same dramatic suddenness with which it rose. The ubiquitous De Wet
marches up and surrounds the town with an overwhelming force; the
inevitable surrender is made, and the Boer flag flies again over
Klerksdorp after six glorious weeks of British rule by a score or so
of audacious troopers.

_September 8._--Henry turned up in a carriage and pair, and we spent
all the afternoon together. It is a strange place to meet in after
seventeen months, he coming from British Columbia, I from London. A
fancy strikes me that it is symbolic of the way in which the whole
empire has rallied together for a common end on African soil. He is
still very lame, though called convalescent, and we are trying to work
his transfer over here. The day-sister has very kindly written a
letter to