Amid the din, the smoke, the groans of dying men and horses--a strange adjunct in that picture of strife and agony--was the figure of the rebel's wife; her long skirt falling far below her feet over the rocks, giving her the appearance of supernatural height, her head uncovered, and all her sable tresses streaming in the wind. Many a stout heart quailed at first view of this singular apparition, as the sun, opening his crimson chambers behind it, threw out the tall form in bold relief between the rocks and sky. On either side of her were crouched her impish pages, Lynx and Frolic, immovable and unappalled, as she was apparently. But, ah! that woman's heart was beating as her eyes followed the plumed hat, which towered above the rest, and was always foremost. The Boers had now all dismounted, and were fighting hand to hand, muzzle to muzzle, with the troops. Even the guns could not work, for the artillerymen had been the first to fall, and the rockets had had no opportunity for use. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ But there is a lull in the strife; Madame Vander Roey sees her husband fall--he is seized, not by the enemy--but Brennard flings the wounded chief across his swift steed, mounts it, and, with his burden bleeding before him, gallops furiously to the rear. "Vander Roey has fled!--has fled!--has fled!" passes from mouth to mouth among the rebel ranks--they break asunder, fall into disorder, and retreat. In vain Lyle attempts to rally them--he sees that he must run like the rest, or fail into the hands of a governor from whom he must expect justice rather than mercy. But he is cool, as usual, selects the swiftest horse at hand, gallops a few paces through a shower of bullets, turns, faces the troops, takes aim with his rifle, and brings down the man next Frankfort--he marked this "fellow on the staff" for his prey--again retreats--again pauses between the ridges to fire, and finally dashes like lightning beyond the range of the gun in the gorge. The poor rebels, caught in that trap, became at once prisoners of war; they surrendered unconditionally, and were sent to the rear with the wounded. The British troops pursue, the guns are limbered up, and dragged through the rocky pass; the Boers succeed in crossing first the stream, and next the stony neck beyond, and Lyle again posts a strong line of defence along another natural rampart; but Sir Adrian is better prepared now for the attack. A long streak of light shoots upward from the river's brink, and, breaking far forward towards the sky into a thousand golden drops, falls among the fugitives, scattering them apart, and strewing the rough ground with bleeding corpses! Madame Vander Roey had turned to watch the retreat of her husband; she tried to descend the ridge, but her heart sickened and her limbs failed her; she sunk, terror-stricken and shocked, upon the stone where her husband had bid her wait for him.