My sons, do they live? God be praised, they are here. The father fell at Belmont, but He has spared the sons! And mine, I say, and mine; three they are, boys yet--what, no more? All I have--all I had gone for ever! Oh, Lord, uphold us! Welcome home, my boy. Your brother, is he well? Speak! Ah me! I loved him best; it is my punishment At last! my love, my husband! Happy day! Hush ... a hymn peals forth and wafts our thoughts to One above, a harmony of mingled joy and sadness. The last solemn notes die away, and we separate--joyous couples to make mirth together, sad widows to weep alone. How strange to sit at a table once more, to hear again the melody of girlish voices! "Sweet are looks that ladies bend on whom their favours fall." Let us bask in the warmth of your smiles to-night; to-morrow the cheerless veld again! Tales to boil the blood are told, barbarous brutality. Our commandant's daughter dragged before the provost-marshal. The gun found buried in your yard; your father's work? No, my own. You lie! Out you go--property confiscated, furniture sold; go seek the commandoes and ask them for shelter! A widow, husband killed. Clear out, furniture confiscated! Why? Your sons are fighting; you are a rebel! I'll teach you to remember Major C------. But in a skirmish Major C------ is killed; joy of the widowed and fatherless. Homage to our noble women, patient under persecution, steadfast in adversity, cheerfully sending forth their nearest and dearest to battle to the end! On the morrow a sharp alarm note is sounded. An officer gallops from house to house. Quick! saddle and ride; meet at Frederikstad! Myself and a comrade are quickly speeding thither, our brief Valhalla over. On the road we overtake and pass parties of twos and threes, all on the same errand. At last we approach the rendezvous. Up the hill rides a dense body of cavalry; down near the station horsemen dash in and out, to and fro, like busy ants. On the hill a few footmen leisurely stroll about, rifle in hand. What means all this commotion? We pass a Kafir hut. "Are those Boers or English, outa?" "Boers, baas." "Sure?" "Yes, baas, it's our own people." "Yes, look, that's the commandant ahead on his roan. Come along!" We near the horsemen. The last man dismounts as we approach; his companions are disappearing over the rise; he shifts his saddle forward, staring at us intently. A tall, well-built fellow, red hair, chin scrubby, dust-covered features. A bayonet at his side--by heavens! an Englishman! "Frank, it's a khaki," I whisper, "keep straight on." The soldier looks me in the face as we slowly pass him. I feel my cheeks burn and turn my head away. His gun stands in the bucket; we can shoot him, but then, the others? We wear top-boots and riding-breeches, hats pinned up at the side; he is in doubt--perhaps we are scouts just come in. He mounts his horse and rides after his comrades.