A Colonial, writing from the front at Paardeberg, said that fighting "went on during the day until about five o'clock, when the Cornwalls arrived in support. The officer commanding this battalion seemed to think that too much time had already been spent in fighting the Boers, so ordered the charge. The result was fatal to the Cornwalls, as they had to retire. The Canadians, acting under the orders of the commanding officer of the Cornwalls as senior officer, also charged, and with a like result; but the Canadians, in place of retiring, simply lay down and remained. It was during this charge that most of the fatalities occurred. The unfortunate commanding officer of the Cornwalls was killed, and Captain Arnold and Lieutenant Mason of the Canadians wounded. The Brigadier subsequently expressed his regret that the charge took place, but at the same time warmly congratulated the Canadians on their behaviour, as did Lord Roberts also." Of gallantry and daring there was no end. From dawn till sunset raged a battle of appalling fierceness, of magnificent persistency. From drift to drift the hollows reverberated with the perpetual roll of musketry, the brawling of multifarious guns, the hoarse cheers of charging troops, the shouts of the unflinching enemy. Curling smoke burst in wreaths and garlands from the sides of the hills and rose against the purple of thunder-clouds; flaring tongues of vengeful flame danced and forked their reflections of heaven's lightnings; spouts and torrents of water poured from the sky, mingling with the heroical blood of Britain's best, that trickled in rivulets, north, south, east, and west of the scene, and traced far and wide the history of sacrifice on the now sacred ground. For all this, the position of the contending parties remained unchanged--Cronje defiant and enclosed, the British lion crouching, watching. At dusk the scene was weirdly, terrifically picturesque. From the south and north sides of the river shells hurtled through the air, falling and exploding along the river-bed, now setting fire to a waggon, now a cart, and filling the gloom with lurid panoramas of flame and an awe-striking, ceaseless din. Once an ammunition waggon was struck. Then the blaze and crackling which followed, intermingling as they did with the roar of artillery and the rattle of rifles, made a fitting concert for Hades. And to the tune of this demoniacal intermezzo the cordon round the enemy was gradually closing, his last chances of escape were one by one being sealed, the last links in Lord Roberts' strategical chain were being forged.