place at the spot mentioned. A little later a passing train pulls up at
that camp, and a party possessing a picturesque and vivid imagination at
once informs the guard that a fearful fight has occurred, in which a
General, a Colonel, twelve subs., and six hundred men have been killed on
our side, with fourteen hundred wounded and nine hundred prisoners. The
Boer losses are generally estimated at something like five times that
number.

The guard tells the tale later on to some traveller, who embellishes it,
and passes it along as a fact. He goes into details, tells harrowing
stories concerning hair-raising escapes from shot and shell. He splashes
the surrounding rocks with gouts of blood, and then shudders dismally at
the sight his fancy has conjured up. When the thrilled listener has
refreshed the tale-teller from his whisky flask, the romancist takes up the
thread of his narrative once more, and tells how the Lancers thundered over
the shivering veldts in pursuit of flying hordes of foemen, and for awhile,
like some graveyard ghoul, he revels in the moans of the dying and the
blood of the slain. Another pull at the flask sets him going again like
clockwork, and he makes a vivid picture out of the thunder of the guns as
our gallant (they are always gallant) fellows bombarded the enemy from the
heights.

Then he switches off from the artillery, and tells a blood-curdling tale of
Boer treachery and cowardice. He tells how the enemy held out the white
flag to coax our men to stop firing. Then, in awe-inspiring tones, he sobs
forth a tale of dark and dismal war, how our soldiers respected the white
flag and rested on their arms, only to be mowed down by a withering rifle
fire from the canaille who represent the enemy in the field. Having got so
far, he does not feel justified in stopping until he has thrown in some
flowery language concerning a Boer cannonade upon British ambulance