In pursuance of an idea which had long occupied his thoughts the Colonel despatched a mounted force to cross the border into Free State territory--at which we could look across with the naked eye. What good purpose the visit was to serve was not obvious; but it was attributed to a desire on the Colonel's part to win the distinction of being the _first_ to invade the enemy's territory. At any rate, the distinction _was_ won. The men had not far to travel; and they did not go far when they crossed over, for the Oliphantsfontein camp blocked the way. The Boers were awake, but the audacity of the raid would appear to have deprived them for the moment of their visual senses. The Light Horse drew quite close ere the propriety of halting was suggested to them. The suggestion was naturally expected to issue in the first instance from the cannon's mouth; but the guns said nothing, and their silence emboldened our fellows to persist in their breach of etiquette until they made a startling discovery, namely, that the guns had been removed. This unexpected slice of luck so inspired the invaders that they advanced rapidly and drove out the enemy, whose resistance was feeble. A general inspection followed; the pantries and cupboards of the houses around were the objects of a special scrutiny, but not a bone, not an egg, not a crust was found! In one house a Boer lance with a white rag for pennon was picked up. This curio was carried back to town, and ultimately became the property of an enterprising curiosity shop-keeper, who cut artistic bullet holes in the pennon with his scissors--thereby adding largely to its curiousness. The bullets that made the holes were also a good line, and "sold" well (in fact, everybody). Nothing else occurred to make Friday noteworthy. Saturday completed the round dozen weeks of siege life. How many more were to follow? Alas! our seers were discredited. They were silent; but hollow though time had branded their vaticinations the silence of the seers was not exactly golden. The prevailing pessimism was heart-breaking. At a critical stage, when a cheerful optimism was almost essential to the preservation of one's mental balance, we were tactlessly stuffed with the "lone lorn" lamentations of a Mrs. Gummidge. But Roberts was coming, and he was a "great" soldier--far greater than Wellington, or even Napoleon (a mere Corsican!) We hungered for news of his plans. Roberts, we took it, was not the man to sanction the alleged intentions of his subordinates--the callous mediocrities who would let Kimberley work out its own salvation. It was reported at this time--for the better security of our peace of mind--that a grand march was to be made on Bloemfontein, while Kimberley was to live on air and fight away.