hats and cheer, while he, once again perplexed, would, taking his pipe from his pocket, slowly retrace his steps to his trench. The old man was a remarkably good shot, and from his post has sent many bullets through the loopholes in our sandbags. He would go in the early morning to his fort and he would return at dusk, but in the going and coming he, alone of the men who were opposing us, was given a safe passage. One day, however, as the Red Cross flag came out from the fort, we, looking through our glasses, saw them lift the body of grandfather into the ambulance. That night there was a funeral, and upon the following day we learnt that he had been their best marksman. For ourselves, we were genuinely sorry. Yesterday there occurred another of those acts of war which illustrate in such a very striking fashion the silent tragedies which are enacted, and with which perforce many unwilling people are connected, during the progress of a campaign. There are, of course, many issues to the career of a soldier, and perhaps not the least important of these is the arduous and very dangerous task of collecting intelligence. In the ranks of society, men who are known to be spies are regarded with silent contempt, and ostracised from the circle of their acquaintances, so soon as their calling is ascertained; but the duties of a military spy differ in almost every respect from the individual who becomes a social reformer. In the field the military spy carries his life in his hand, since his capture implies an almost immediate execution without any possibility of reprieve. Last night such an occurrence took place at sundown, when, as the sun sank to its setting, a native, who had been caught within our lines, and who confessed to be an emissary of the Boers, was taken out and shot.