During the last few chapters we have almost lost sight of our hero’s daily life. But it must not be forgotten that we are not writing a mere romance, but are recording a narrative of real life, earnest and real. Nor must it be forgotten or lost sight of, that the real object of the work is to tell of the hopes of future national existence, of the patriotism and love of people and country of a young Afrikander brought up from his youth with the idea that his race is struggling for a place amongst the nations of the world, and that he must do all in his power to further that object. Therefore, we have during the last few chapters told of the struggles of his countrymen towards that object, in which he so greatly sympathised, and of his thoughts and opinions on those struggles. We have been simply recording his thoughts, his joys for victories won and troubles overcome and avoided by his race. The story of his country is his own story. We shall resume the thread of his own life where we left it off, having brought the political question of the day that so much interested him up to date. After Steve had sent off the telegram to his mother informing her that Johannesburg had surrendered, he thought he could do no better than to take his horse (or rather Mijnheer Meyer’s horse) out for a little exercise, especially as the horse had been having a good rest, and had been well fed since his arrival at Pretoria. While Steve was riding proudly along the streets of Pretoria on the beautiful stallion, the thought which had troubled him before reoccurred to him again. How was he going to return the horse to its owner? He had made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mijnheer Meyer, but owing to his speedy departure from Krugersdorp with the prisoners of war, he had been unable to find the gentleman in question, as the commando with which Mijnheer Meyer served remained in that neighbourhood. Suddenly Steve heard an exclamation of surprise. ‘_Alle magty Kerel_, where did you get that horse?’ Steve saw that this question was addressed to him, and he also felt that it was a most awkward question to be asked. He could not answer the question, so he asked another. ‘Why do you ask, sir?’ ‘Because it seems to me I know the horse,’ was the reply of the man, who was a fine-looking, good-natured, elderly man. At his side walked a stalwart, broad-shouldered young man, who seemed strong enough to fell any ox with a blow of his hard fist. This young man seemed to gaze on the horse with great interest. ‘Sir, if you know the horse, you can perhaps tell me where I can find its owner, as I wish to return him his property,’ said Steve. ‘Well, you won’t have far to go to find his owner, for here is the owner himself,’ said the old man, pointing to his companion, who it was apparent at first sight must be his son. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to ask your name, sir?’ said Steve, suspiciously. ‘I am Meyer,’ was the reply.