“We reached the frontier—­Norval’s Pont—­at 6 P.M. yesterday, and after a long delay, moved slowly out in the dark, till the shimmer of water between iron girders told us we were crossing the Orange river.  Once off the bridge, a shout went up for our first step on the enemy’s country.  Then all went on the same.  We made ourselves comfortable, and brewed hot cocoa, for all the world as though we were travelling from Boulogne to Geneva.  The only signs of hostility were the shrill execrations of a crowd of infant aborigines.

“We woke up to a changed country.  The distances were still greater, low hills only occasionally breaking the monotony of flat plain, but the scrub had given way to grass, not verdant Irish grass, but sparse, yellow herbage.  Ant-hills and dead horses were the only objects in the foreground, except eternal wreaths and tangles of telegraph wire along the tracks, and piles of sleepers, showing the damage done, and now repaired, to line and wire.  The same pure crisp air and gentle sunlight.

“May 24.—­Thursday.—­I write in our tent on the plateau above Bloemfontein, and will go on where I left off on the 22nd.  To our utter disgust, after standing for hours in a siding of the station, chatting to all sorts and conditions of the species soldier, the order came to detrain.  We drivers took the horses first to water, and then picketed them on an arid patch of ground near the station, where the gunners had meantime brought the guns and waggons.  It was now dark, and there were no rations served out; very cold, too, and we had no kit, but it wasn’t these things we minded, but the getting out instead of training on.  ‘Kroonstadt’ is redolent of war, but, ‘Bloemfontein’ spells inaction.  However, there was no help for it.  We slept on the ground, and precious cold this new climate was.  I hadn’t my Stohwasser blanket, and spent most of the night stamping about and smoking.  At reveille next day rations were still lacking, but we all trooped off to a tin hut and had tea, given by an unseen angel, named Sister Bagot.  ‘Boot and saddle’ sounded at nine, and we marched off to the camp, about two miles away.  There was a very nasty ravine to cross, and we had to have drag ropes on behind, with the gunners on them, to steady us down the descent.  I was driving centres as usual, and saw the leaders almost disappear in front of me.  At the bottom we crossed a stream, and then galloped them up the other side.  Soon after we passed through Bloemfontein, a quiet, dull-looking place, like a suburb of Cape Town, mounted a long hill, and came out on to another broad plain, kopjes in the distance, and tents dotted far and wide.  The first moving thing I saw was a funeral,—­slow music, a group of khaki figures, and the bright colours of a Union Jack glinting between.