The procession arrived upon the stoep opposite to us and began to
sort itself out, whereon the English present raised a cheer and
the Boers behind us cursed audibly. In the middle appeared an
elderly gentleman with whiskers and a stoop, in whom I recognized
Mr. Osborn, known by the Kaffirs as Malimati, the Chief of the
Staff. By his side was a tall young fellow, yourself, my friend,
scarcely more than a lad then, carrying papers. The rest stood
to right and left in a formal line. _You_ gave a printed
document to Mr. Osborn who put on his glasses and began to read
in a low voice which few could hear, and I noticed that his hand
trembled. Presently he grew confused, lost his place, found it,
lost it again and came to a full stop.

"A nervous-natured man," remarked Mr. Anscombe. "Perhaps he
thinks that those gentlemen are going to shoot."

"That wouldn't trouble him," I answered, who knew him well. "His
fears are purely mental."

That was true since I know that this same Sir Melmoth Osborn as
he is now, as I have told in the book I called _Child of Storm_,
swam the Tugela alone to watch the battle of Indondakasuka raging
round him, and on another occasion killed two Kaffirs rushing at
him with a right and left shot without turning a hair. It was
reading this paper that paralyzed him, not any fear of what might
happen.

There followed a very awkward pause such as occurs when a man
breaks down in a speech. The members of the Staff looked at him
and at each other, then behold! you, my friend, grabbed the paper