We march on eastward as day broadens, through a country open and grassy, rising and falling in long slopes to the horizon. Suddenly from the far side of one of these ridges comes the rapid, dull, double-knocking of the Mausers. The enemy are firing at our flankers; these draw back under cover of the slope, and we continue to advance, the firing going on all the time, but passing over our heads. Now the Major, curious as to the enemy's position, sends half-a-dozen of our troop up the slope to get a view. These ride up in open order, and are at once made a mark of by the Boer riflemen, luckily at long range. Wing, wing, with their sharp whirring note, came the bullets. They take a rapid survey and return to tell the Major that the scenery in that direction is exceptionally uninteresting, a long slant of grass stretching up for a mile or more, and somewhere about the sky-line Boers shooting. Then comes the usual interval while we wait for "the guns." The guns shortly arrive and a brace of Maxims. These open a hot fire at the top of the hill. They are rather in front of us, and fire back up the slope across our front; the bullets passing sound like the rushing of wind through grass. After a bit the order is given to take the hill, and we advance firing as we go. Beyond the guns and Maxims other men are moving up. You notice that the Colonials shoot as sportsmen do. The regulars blaze away all the time, seeing nothing, but shooting on spec at the hill top; load and shoot, load and shoot, as hard as they can. Our fellows have a liking for something to shoot at. With their carbines at the ready, they walk quickly forward as if they were walking up to partridges. Now a man sees a head lifted or the grass wave, and instantly up goes the carbine with a crack as it strikes the shoulder. Another jumps up on to an anthill to get a better view. Every time an extra well directed shell falls among the prostrate Boers, one or two start up and run back, and noticing this, several of the Guides wait on the guns, and as each shell screams overhead on its way to the hill top, they stand ready for a snapshot. _Wang_! goes the shell, up leaps a panic-stricken Dutchman, and crack, crack, crack, go half-a-dozen carbines. Though absolutely without cover, the enemy keep up for some time a stubborn reply, and when at last we reach the crest, tenanted now only by a few dead bodies, we have lost nearly two precious hours. Below across the vast plain the Dutch are in full retreat. It is doubtful already if we shall be able to intercept them.