screams of shells, by the angry snap of the Mauser, and the droning of the Martini bullets, that these men who were now dead had achieved the full honour of their calling. Indeed, many were there who would have given gladly their own lives in exchange for that of their friend, while there was not one who did not feel that the manner in which their end had come to them was impressed with all that was most noble. For a moment after the service had concluded, we stood listening to the strains of the Last Call. As its solemn notes died away, and we retraced our steps to the various trenches and earthworks which, for the moment, gave us shelter, we little imagined that within a few hours, those of us who were correspondents would follow the body of one from amongst ourselves once more upon this road. The following night Lieutenant Murchison, who was in charge of the guns, wilfully shot with his revolver Mr. E. G. Parslow, war correspondent of the London _Daily Chronicle_. The horror of such a crime still hangs over us, and is not in any way diminished by the fact that an officer who had already distinguished himself by his career, should now be awaiting the verdict of a Field Court Martial upon the gravest charge in the criminal calendar. Poor Parslow had endeared himself to everybody by the genial sympathy which he extended to those who were themselves in trouble. He had won the admiration of many by the calmness with which he conducted himself under the heaviest fire. CHAPTER XII A RECONNAISSANCE MAFEKING, _November 7th, 1899_.