We had held a grand review of our forces on the opening days of the siege.  The Regulars, the Light Horse, the Town Guard, etc., had filed past the Colonel and the Mayor, amid the plaudits of the people and the music of the band.  The afternoon brought recollections of the demonstration.  The Boers appeared to be holding a pageant of their own—­for our edification, no doubt.  For several hours they were marshalled on the veld with a demonstrativeness that seemed to say:  “You might as well give in at once; look at the size of us!” Their size was certainly impressive; more so than their proficiency in drill.  We beat them hollow at drill; so hollow that we laughed arrogantly and loud.  The Boers could shoot well; but what was that—­without drill!

On Thursday morning we were still laughing when the guns of Wimbleton proceeded to query our hilarity.  Wimbleton Ridge, unfortunately, was rather far away; we were unable to respond.  Whether it was that the revels of our risible faculties were ultimately attributed to the cattle-stealing of Wednesday night, an energetic assault was suddenly opened on Kenilworth.  It is true, we had affected a tidy confiscation; but that joke was now old—­too old to laugh at.  We had some “snipers” all day endeavouring to worry the Boers.  A mounted patrol, also, worried them.  In the afternoon the rain came down to complete their misery, and the imperturbable oxen were let browse in peace.

And from another quarter there was coming worry, to shatter the dreams, the hopes, the “castles in the air” of Kimberley.  The Relief Column was approaching; this time for certain.  We had heard like legends before, but they were only legends (before).  The Column was really coming.  A native had come in with the news.  Now, of a white man’s reliability a doubt would not be tolerated; but the native!—­well, the native had acquired a reputation for bad, bold mendacity that was altogether too unscientific to be appreciated by a close and subtle aristocracy.  Still, the story was nice; we liked to believe it.  There are natives and natives—­there is even a Booker Washington—­all men are not liars.  The Press, too, attached credence to the tale, and that went far to convince us of its truth.  A glance at the paper next morning established the veracity of the Bantu.

“We are authorised to state that a strong force has left Orange River, and is moving forward to the relief of Kimberley.”

Such was the message.  The joy was universal.  In a few days the column would be with us.  Kimberley would be free.  The siege was over!  Hurrah, the people shouted with an enthusiasm only transcended in degree by the resolute contempt with which the reported approach of French was greeted in the following year.  The Queen was sung of with rare earnestness and lung power.  The Colonel was toasted and praised at the bars.  Baden-Powell was promised help; the Mayor was patronised.  The column was drunk