After moving some two or three miles, our further way was blocked by mauser-fire from a very ominous, black-looking kopje which stretched down into the valley from the high ground on our left. The guns came into action against this hill at a range of about two thousand yards, and it seemed as if a golden-crested wren could not have escaped if it had been unlucky enough to be there. The shrapnel kept up an almost incessant hail, covering the wooded sides of the kopje with jets of round white balls of smoke, while every now and then the deeper note of the 4.7 was followed by a huge cloud of dust and yellowish vapour thrown up, and off, by the explosion of the lyddite in the huge projectile. How many Boers held that hill will probably never be known; only four were found. But a strange spectacle ensued. Emerging from the cover on the far side, rode, _ventre-a-terre_, a solitary horseman. Immediately two companies extended in our front opened fire on him. How he escaped was a marvel, for in front, behind, on every side of him could be seen 'the bullets kicking dust-spots on the green.' But escape he did, and many a 'Good luck to you' went after him, for he was a bold man to have stayed as long as he had, and fully deserved to escape. Our bombardment had effected one useful purpose. Amongst the killed was a Commandant called Theron, a brave, enterprising young fellow of about twenty-five years of age, whose exploits had already stamped him as a born leader of men. Our own casualties amounted to four yeomen wounded. We camped a little further on, and buried our enemy, and one of our own men who had died from his wounds, side by side, with all due honour, ceremony, and respect. [Illustration: Funeral of Commandant Theron and a British Soldier. September 6th, 1900.]