again came the sharp rat-tat of the Metford, followed by the Mauser's
significant cough.

Through our glasses we espied six helmeted men slowly retreating up the
mountain, pausing at every dozen yards to fire a volley at some
invisible enemy. Three of them reached the top. The sentries were being
driven in.

General Botha now arrived with the reserve force. All dismounted.

"Put your horses out of sight," were his first words to his men, "they
will draw the enemy's fire."

Scarcely had he spoken when a shrapnel shell burst overhead, and three
horses were lying on their backs, snorting and kicking. Then came
another and another. Both went wide. The animals were quickly led behind
the hill, and the three wounded put out of their pain.

Taking the best shelter possible, we gazed upon the drama being unfolded
before us.

The attack was now in full swing. The grating British volleys, the
ceaseless mill of independent firing, the sharp flash of the British
guns, the fierce whirr of our French shells, the deep boom of Long Tom
resounding through the valleys. Who can describe it all?

Yet hardly a single combatant could be discerned. Attacked and attackers
alike were invisible. One soldier only stood in plain view on the crest
of the hill, signalling with a flag. Our men reached the crest, and the
soldier disappeared. Whether in response to his signals or not,