Daveney had planned his line of march intending to avoid Sir John Manvers's camp; but, on the third day's journey, the sound of harmonious voices swelling in chorus struck on the surprised ears of the party. A deep glen lay just below; the cavalcade halted; they could see nothing, for the cliffs overhung the gorge. The sounds drew near--'twas an old Scotch air, very martial and stirring, especially in that deep solitude. In front was an opening, an outlet from the glen. Mr Daveney and Marion rode forward, and looked down. Soldiers singing on a march! Reader, did you ever hear it? Ah, it is worth a world of fine, well-taught, scientific melodies! You should have seen them in this mountain-pass. They were Highlanders, not kilted, but they wore the "tartan trews." Beating time with steady tread to the noble chorus, they passed below the cliff from which Daveney and his daughter Marion watched them. Truly this had a singular effect in that ravine, so like a Scottish glen, with mountains looming far and near, and--oh! rare in Southern Africa--a waterfall tumbling and foaming over hoary rocks. Softly it rose and fell upon the air, again burst forth in full harmony as the glen widened, and died away in the shade where the pathway narrowed between tall hills. All was still once more, save the murmur of the waterfall. The Daveneys took their station for the night. The escort formed its cordon round the little bivouac, and May directed the lighting of the fires and preparations for the usual sunset meal. Midnight--Daveney held that watch himself. "Who goes there?" "Friends," answered a voice--it was Ormsby's. He was in command of a company of soldiers. Sir John Manvers was extending his force. The Daveneys found themselves unexpectedly within the lines of the British troops. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE BATTLE. I have said that the salute of the horsemen who advanced to meet Vander Roey's band was answered by a corresponding movement from the latter. Each party moved along its path in stern silence. They met at the foot of the lull, and then palm met palm, as though sealing a sullen but determined compact. Vander Roey's countenance proclaimed evil tidings. No one liked to ask him questions; besides, the very advance of the pilgrims over the hills was a signal that hope was lost. Lodewyk was the spokesman, while Vander Roey and his wife rode forward with Vanbloem, a son of the settler introduced in the early chapters of this work. He was young, active, brave, and clever. Each of these two men had much to tell the other. Lodewyk strode on declaiming--Vander Roey told again how he had been turned from Sir John Manvers's door with scorn.