The scheme was immediately howled down.  The ladies, it need hardly be said, were well in the van of opposition.  They foregathered in the streets, and with arms fixed resolutely akimbo denounced the contemplated outrage as a monstrous tyranny—­enough to make them “turn Boer,” indeed, as one lady luridly put it.  Whither would they go?  Would the “Military Situation” answer whither?  There were women of mature years who, given a choice between hanging and a whirl day and night through the Karoo, would almost favour the suspension of the constitution!  But apart from physical inconvenience, the idea of forsaking their homes and husbands was too ridiculous.  The notion of living in tents on potted beef and adamantine biscuits was shuddered at.  The whole project was voted a wild-cat scheme (and Mr. Rhodes agreed).  After the spartan bravery they had displayed for two months, the ladies regarded this new and wanton strain on their loyalty as inhuman.  Their protest was loud and dignified; and when the women are concerned in a public protest the men are—­oh, so mere!  And the men in khaki were no exception to the rule; they were cowed, with all their munitions of war.  They had decided on no definite course of action; or said they had not—­to save their face.  Their plans were essentially tentative; and, besides, the railway train—­an important factor—­was not just yet able to carry far a scheme of compulsory migration.

Thursday came; but not so Methuen.  It was allowed that the Noble Lord could hardly be expected to gauge accurately the violence of our hurry; nor to conceive, however noble his imagination, that our hens laid eggs at eighteen pence apiece.  We got another glimpse of the balloon to cheer us, and were also edified in the course of the day with news of the Belmont battle.  The Belmont battle was a stale story when the Modder River fight was fresh, and the latter was now in all conscience stale enough.  Of Magersfontein, not a word.  This reticence in regard to Magersfontein intensified our curiosity; it was the parent of a pessimism that was to thrive.  Common sense and the dictates of reason would clamour for recognition.  Between the struggle at Modder River and the publication of its result there had been no interval to speak of.  The fight of Belmont had occasioned no departure from the exercise of the “new diplomacy.”  We had heard of the collision and of the victory at Graspan almost simultaneously.  But we were not yet acquainted with the sequel to the clash at Magersfontein; it was a solemn secret.  There was news that Cronje had decamped from Mafeking and was at Modder River with an augmented force; but this did not for the moment interest us.  In his (Cronje’s) alleged quarrels with the Free Staters we had no immediate concern.  What they told us of his inglorious retreat from the north was not to the point; it was enough that he had been wafted south by an ill wind that might blow us no good luck.  All these tit-bits made news in the abstract, but were foreign to the mystery surrounding what happened at Magersfontein.  Something was wrong; but the policy of prolonging the suspense was not right.  Every nook and cranny in the hospital were being held in readiness for the sick and wounded (presumably accompanying the Column), and a vague fear was entertained that all the nooks and crannies might be needed.  Who could tell?