Before the British advance reached Johannesburg one would never have known, by merely taking note of the life in Pretoria, that a fierce war was being waged in the country. The ladies went on with their calling and shopping, business houses carried on their work as usual, and the hotels were crowded with a throng of men who looked more like speculators in a new country than men fighting for their homes and liberty. The night I arrived in Pretoria the train pulled into the station just after dark, and the street lights gave the place an air of mystery. The blackness of the night heightened one’s imagination of possible plots and attempted escapes, of spies and sudden attacks. A big Scotchman, who told me his name was “Jack,” shared the compartment with me; he was returning from the front, where he had been fighting for his adopted country. He carried a Mauser, and over his shoulder was slung a bandolier of cartridges; these, with his belt and canteen, made up his entire equipment. His pockets were his haversack, his big tweed coat was his blanket. He gave me the first idea of the real bitterness of the struggle, for he said he would rather die many times over than give up to the British. He was fighting against men of his own blood, perhaps his very relatives; but the spirit of liberty was in him, and he was defending the home he had built in this faraway land. As the train rolled around the curve into Pretoria, the Scotch burgher pointed out a brilliant circle of lights on a far side of the great group of flickering yellow lamps which showed the position of the town. The effect of mystery deepened as I peered out at the station platform and saw little groups of men huddled together in the radius of the dazzling electric arcs. Here and there a solitary figure with a rifle walked slowly about. The doors had been locked before we entered the town, and no one was allowed to leave the train until an official with a decidedly English air had examined all the passports. I wondered whether I should be able to make myself understood, and whether, in case I were mistaken for a British spy, I should be followed by some secret agent of the Republic. Suddenly a sharp cry at my door broke in upon my fanciful surmises. “Free ’bus to the Transvaal Hotel,” shouted a voice from the figure outlined against the bright light. “Grand Hotel! The Grand! Grand Hotel!” and in another instant I was wrestling against an unseen hand for the possession of my luggage. “Cab, sir? Cab up-town, sir?”