Vincent Hammersley, we have said, achieved, with a few others, his escape to the Natal side of the Buffalo River, and reached the village of Helpmakaar, situated about five miles therefrom, where two companies of the first battalion of his unfortunate regiment were posted, under the command of a field-officer, and where for a few days he found himself in comparative comfort, though he and his brother-officers had a crushing sense of sorrow and mortification for what had befallen their corps at Isandhlwana; for regiments were not then what they have become now, mere scratch battalions, without much cohesion in peace or war, but were happy, movable homes--one family, indeed--full of _cameraderie_, grand traditions, and old _esprit de corps_; and often at Helpmakaar was the surmise, which is ever in the minds of our soldiers at the scene of war, put in words, 'What will they think of this at home? What are folks in Britain saying about this?' Hearing of Florian's arrival, kindly he sent for him to congratulate him on his escape, and the interview took place in what was termed the 'mess-tent' (an old tarpaulin stretched on poles), where, seeing his worn and wasted aspect, he insisted on his taking some refreshment before relating what he and several officers were anxious to hear--details of the gallant but fatal episode of Melville and Coghill, when they perished on the left bank of the Buffalo. They then heard his subsequent adventures and the story of his narrow escape. 'I should like to have seen you potting those three fellows on the open karroo,' said an officer. 'It was a mercy to me that they knew not how to sight their rifles, sir, or I should not have been here to-clay probably,' replied Florian modestly. 'By Jove!' said Hammersley, 'I can't think enough of your act in the mealie-field, polishing off the Zulu who had the rifle with the assegai of his companion, and so becoming master of the situation. There were courage and decision in the act--two valuable impulses, for indecision and weakness of character are at the bottom of half the failures of life. You can't go about thus, in your shirt-sleeves,' added Hammersley. 'I have an old guard-tunic in my baggage; it will be good enough to fight in, and is at your service.' 'Thanks, sir,' replied Florian, colouring; 'but how can I appear in an officer's tunic?' 'One may wear anything here,' said Hammersley, laughing. 'By Jove! you are sure to be an officer some day soon; but meantime you may rip off the badges.' Florian was glad of the gift, as all the stores of every description had been captured at Isandhlwana. Hammersley had seriously begun the apparently hopeless task of rooting Finella's image out of his heart.