“It was sunset in Table Bay—­Phoebus’ last lingering rays were empurpling the beetling crags of Table Mountain’s snowy peak—­the great ship Montfort, big with the hopes of an Empire (on which the sun never sets), was gliding majestically to her moorings.  Countless craft, manned by lissome blacks or tawny Hottentots, instantly shot forth from the crowded quays, and surged in picturesque disorder round the great hull, scarred by the ordure of ten score pure Arab chargers.  ‘Who goes there?’ cried the ever-watchful sentry on the ship, as he ran out the ready-primed Vickers-Maxim from the port-hole.  ’Speak, or I fire ten shots a minute.’  ‘God save the Queen,’ was the ready response sent up from a thousand throats.  ‘Pass, friends,’ said the sentry, as he unhitched the port companion-ladder.  In a twinkling the snowy deck of the great transport was swarming with the dusky figures of the native bearers, who swiftly transferred the cargo from the groaning hold into the nimble bum-boats, and carried the large-limbed Anglo-Saxon heroes into luxurious barges, stuffed with cushions soft enough to satisfy the most jaded voluptuary.  At shore, a sight awaited them calculated to stir every instinct of patriotism in their noble bosoms.  On a richly chased ebon throne sat the viceroy in person, clad in all the panoply of power.  A delicate edge of starched white linen, a sight which had not met their eyes for many a weary week, peeped from beneath his gaudier accoutrements; the vice-regal diadem, blazing with the recovered Kimberley diamond, encircled his brow, while his finely chiselled hand grasped the great sword of state.  Around him were gathered a dazzling bevy of all the wit and beauty of South Africa; great chieftains from the fabled East, Zulus, Matabeles, Limpopos and Umslopogaas, clad in gorgeous scarlet feathers gave piquancy to the proud throng.  Most of England’s wit and manhood scintillated in the sunlight, while British matrons and England’s fairest maids lit up with looks of proud affection; bosoms heaved in sympathetic unison with the measured tramp of the ammunition boots; bright eyes caught a sympathetic fire from the clanking spurs of the corporal rough-rider, while the bombardier in command of the composite squadron of artillery, horse-marines, and ambulance, could hardly pick his way through the heaps of rose leaves scattered before him by lily-white hands.  But the scene was quickly changed, as if by enchantment.  At a touch of the button by the viceroy’s youngest child, an urchin of three, thousands of Boer prisoners, heavily laden with chains, brought forward tables groaning with every conceivable dainty.  The heroes set to with famished jaws, and after the coffee, each negligently lit up his priceless cigar with a bank-note, with the careless and open-handed improvidence so charming and so characteristic of their profession.  But suddenly their ease was rudely broken.  A single drum-tap made known to all that the enemy was at the gates.  In a moment the commander had thrown away three parts of his costly cigar, had sprung to his feet, and with the heart of a lion and the voice of a dove, had shouted the magical battle-cry, ‘Attention!’ Then with a yell of stern resolve, and the answering cry of ’Stand easy, boys,’ the whole squadron, gunners and adjutants, ambulance and bombardiers, yeomen and gentlemen farmers, marched forth into the night.