Of course we have none of the proper remedies for sunstroke--no ice, no soda-water, and so little milk that it has to be rationed out almost by the teaspoonful. Now that the fever has begun to subside I can only hope for a tiny ration of tea, a brown compound called rice pudding, flavoured with the immemorial dust of Indian temples, and a beef-tea which neighs in the throat. That is the worst of the condition of the sick now; when they begin to mend it is almost impossible to get them well. There is nothing to give them. At Intombi, I believe it is even worse than here. The letters I have lately seen from officers recovering from wounds or dysentery or enteric are simply heart-rending in their appeals. _February 25, 1900._ Nearly all the patients who have passed through the field hospital during the fortnight have been poor fellows shot by snipers in arms or legs. Except when their wounds are being dressed, they lie absolutely quiet, sleeping, or staring into vacancy. They hardly ever speak a word, though the beds are only a foot apart. On my left is the fragment of the sergeant gunner whom I took for a drive. His misfortunes and his cheerful indifference to them make him a man of social importance. He shows with regret how the shell cut in half a marvellous little Burmese lady, whose robes once swept down his arm in glorious blues and reds, but are now lapped over the bone as "flaps." Another patient was a shaggy, one-eyed old man, between whose feet a Bulwan shell exploded one afternoon as he was walking down the main street. Beyond the shock he was not very seriously hurt, but his calves were torn by iron and stones. He said he was the one survivor of the first English ship that sailed from the Cape with settlers for Natal. He was certainly very old. On the night of the 22nd a man was brought into the hospital where I lay--also attacked by sunstroke--his temperature 107 degrees, and all consciousness happily gone. It was Captain Walker, the clever Irish surgeon, who has served the Gordons through the siege as no other regiment has been served, making their bill of health the best, and their lines a pleasure to visit. His skill, especially in dysentery, was looked to by many outside the Gordons themselves. Nothing could save him. He was packed in cold sheets, fanned, and watched day and night. For a few moments he knew me, and reminded me of a story we had laughed over. But yesterday evening, after struggling long for each breath, he died--one of the best and most useful men in camp.