Major Rodger had sent some men to spy out the country, and was waiting for their return. Presently he saw two men advancing towards him, and thinking they were his own men he rode up to them. On drawing near he saw they were Boers. His main body of men were far behind, and he realized that if he galloped away he would be shot, so he quietly walked his horse up to them. One of the Boers said: “Who are you?” “Only one of the fighting-men from Kimberley,” the Major replied. They did not draw their revolvers, they did not cry “Hands up!” and seize him by the collar--no, all they did was to utter a brief swear, turn their horses’ heads, and scamper over the veldt as fast as they could, stooping over the pommel to avoid the Major’s fire. But half a mile away they hit upon some of their own comrades, fired a few volleys, broke the Major’s arm, and retired. Major Rodger, however, had not done his day’s work, and never told his men he had been shot until they returned to Kimberley in the evening. So much for a Kimberley volunteer! Meanwhile, the little folks and the women deep down in the mine--some 1,500 feet--were busy devouring sandwiches of corned-beef and horse, and buckets of tea and coffee, with condensed milk, were lowered down too. The large chamber cut out of the rock was lit with electric light, and was not very hot, though it was crammed with children, many of whom were lying on rugs or blankets; they lay so thick on the floor that walking amongst them was the feat of an acrobat. But they were safe down there! No ghastly sights of mangled limbs met their gaze, no whizz of deadly shell, no scream of pain reached them there. It was worth something to have escaped the horrors of a siege, and to feel no nervous tremors, no cowardly panic, no dull despair. Meanwhile Lord Roberts had not forgotten Kimberley. A force of some 5,000 sabres, led by General French, with two batteries of Horse Artillery, had galloped in the dead of night to the Modder River. Here a small Boer force fled from before them, and ever on through the quivering heat rode Hussars, Dragoons, and Lancers, until both men and horses fell out exhausted on the veldt. On the third day they came close to some kopjes, or hills, on which Boers were posted, who stared in amazement at the sight of the 9th Lancers sweeping in open order round the base of the hills. A hundred miles they had ridden with scant food and scanter water, so that the Boers might have been still more surprised to see many a trooper walking by his tired steed, and even carrying the saddle. Dr. Conan Doyle tells us that “a skirmish was in progress on the 15th of February between a party of the Kimberley Light Horse and some Boers, when a new body of horsemen, unrecognized by either side, appeared upon the plain, and opened fire upon the enemy. One of the strangers rode up to the Kimberley patrol, and said: “‘What the dickens does K.L.H. mean on your shoulder-strap?’