There was a knife, a many-bladed knife, with a buck horn handle and a corkscrew in it, left by the dying fire. Ernest took it up and looked at it; somehow it seemed familiar to him. He turned it round, examined the silver plate upon it, and suddenly started. “What is the matter, Ernest?” said Mr. Alston, who had joined them. “Look there,” he answered; pointing to two initials cut on the knife. “Well, I see some fellow has left his knife; so much the better for the finder.” “You have heard me speak of my friend Jeremy. That is his knife; I gave it to him years ago. Look—J. J.” “Nonsense! it is some knife like it; I have seen hundreds of that make.” “I believe that it is the same. He must be here.” Mr. Alston shrugged his shoulders. “Not probable,” he said. Ernest made no answer. He stood staring at the knife. “Have you written to your people lately, Ernest?” “No; the last letter I wrote was down there in Secocoeni’s country; you remember I sent it by the Basutu who was going to Lydenburg, just before Jeffries died.” “Like enough he never got to Lydenburg. He would not have dared to go to Lydenburg after the war broke out. You should write.” “I mean to, from Pretoria; but somehow I have had no heart for writing.” Nothing more was said about the matter, and Ernest put the knife into his pocket. That evening they trekked down through the “Poort” that commands the most charming of the South African towns, and, on the plain below, Pretoria, bathed in the bright glow of the evening sunshine, smiled its welcome to them. Mr. Alston, who knew the town, determined to trek straight through it and outspan the waggon on the farther side, where he thought there would be better grazing for the cattle. Accordingly, they rumbled on past the gaol, past the pleasant white building which afterwards became Government House, and which was at that moment occupied by the English Special Commissioner and his staff, about whose doings all sorts of rumours had reached them during their journey, and on to the market-square. This area was at the moment crowded with Boer waggons, whose owners had trekked in to celebrate their “nachtmaal” (communion), of which it is their habit, in company with their wives and children, to partake four times a year. The “Volksraad,” or local Parliament, was also in special session to consider the proposals made to it on behalf of the Imperial Government, so that the little town was positively choked with visitors. The road down which they were passing ran past the buildings used as Government offices, and between this and the Dutch church a considerable crowd was gathered, which, to judge from the shouts and volleys of oaths—Dutch and English—that proceeded from it, was working itself up into a state of excitement. “Hold on,” shouted Ernest to the voorlooper; and then, turning to Mr. Alston, “There is a jolly row going on there; let us go and see what it is.”