had opened up a world of possibilities; morbid forebodings were conjured
up by morbid people, and nobody dreamt of measuring future fatalities by
so low an average as one per day. But yesterday, we were as safe as if
we were "in Piccadilly." A great man had said so--a great man and
millionaire. His name was Rhodes, Mr. Cecil Rhodes, Chairman of the De
Beers Corporation, and "no mean judge of a situation," our newspaper
stated in substantiation of his Piccadilly peccadillo. He had come up
specially for the siege, it was said by some who, had they but half his
foresight, would have "specially" gone away for it. Well, Mr. Rhodes,
felt safe and we, too, had felt safe until the sad event of Saturday
rather neutralised the confidence inspired by the shrewd, but human,
millionaire. There was a minority, indeed, who could not logically look
for aught but ruin and disaster as a sequence to the shock of Saturday.
"Look at the narrow escapes so many had," the minority argued. There
were plenty of stories. Legends of hairbreadth escapes were legion. They
were well told by fluent liars, by such raconteurs as _talk_ of
prodigious things in fishing, and _catch_ nothing but colds. The narrow
escapes were yet to come. Our wounded in the hospital were doing well;
some of them had already been discharged. _Their_ escapes had been
narrow enough, in all conscience; but they were not romantic; they
occurred on the field of battle.

The enemy apparently "slept it out" on Monday. There was no firing until
eight o'clock when a beginning was made with Wesselton. A number of
shells fell in the vicinity of the mine; but, as a lady afterwards
reported: "they did not hit even a dog." Some missiles fell also on the
Bulfontein side, and were buried in the debris heaps. A more serious
assault was subsequently opened on the town itself; for several hours
shells came pouring in from Kamfers Dam and the Lazaretto Ridge. The
firing did not cease until upwards of seventy missiles had burst in the