But for half an hour the hillside was still a maze--a maze of bodies of
men wandering they knew not whither, crossing and recrossing, circling,
stopping and returning on their stumbles, slipping on smooth rock-faces,
breaking shins on rough boulders, treading with hobnailed boots on
wounded fingers.

At length underfoot twinkled lights, and a strong, clear voice sailed
into the confusion, "All wounded men are to be brought down to the Boer
camp between the two hills." Towards the lights and the Boer camp we
turned down the face of jumbled stumbling-block. A wary kick forward, a
feel below--firm rock. Stop--and the firm rock spun and the leg shot
into an ankle-wrenching hole. Scramble out and feel again; here is a
flat face--forward! And then a tug that jerks you on to your back again:
you forgot you had a horse to lead, and he does not like the look of
this bit. Climb back again and take him by the head; still he will not
budge. Try again to the right. Bang! goes your knee into a boulder.
Circle cannily round the horse to the left; here at last is something
like a slope. Forward horse--so, gently! Hurrah! Two minutes gone--a
yard descended.

By the time we stumbled down that precipice there had already passed a
week of nights--and it was not yet eight o'clock. At the bottom were
half-a-dozen tents, a couple of lanterns, and a dozen waggons--huge,
heavy veldt-ships lumbered up with cargo. It was at least possible to
tie a horse up and turn round in the sliding mud to see what next.

What next? Little enough question of that! Off the break-neck hillside
still dropped hoarse importunate cries. "Wounded man here! Doctor
wanted! Three of 'em here! A stretcher, for God's sake!" "A stretcher