It was triumphantly proclaimed in the afternoon that our patrols had brought in a host of Republican cattle; and when almost simultaneously with this announcement two proclamations were issued from Lennox Street, it was more than hoped, it was assumed, that the meat ordinance was to be relaxed.  But it was not so.  The first of these monuments to circumlocution had a final rap at the canteen.  There were a few bars and canteens outside the barriers of the town; the Colonel said they should be closed, and closed they were—­the proprietors, strange to say, assenting with a will.  This alacrity was not consistent with their earlier diatribes against military despotism; but the fact was that since “lyddite” had been found out the experts were chary of making it, and the public still more chary of drinking it.  There was some risk in selling it, too, so—­clear the course for the “Law.”

The second proclamation was all of wax and tallow.  It commanded that all lights must in future be extinguished at half-past nine.  We were thus considerately given half an hour to undress and lie reading books in bed after having been turned away from a perusal of the stars.  We might have liked a little time for supper—­but what am I saying!—­there were no suppers; at least nobody was expected to commit a capital offence.  But such miscreants existed, and kept their heads.  It must in fairness be explained that they were for the most part possessors of obstinate hens that would not lay eggs.  Eggs were firm at twenty-five shillings a dozen, and the hen that remained so contemptuous of mammon, so unredeemed by cupidity, so unmoved by the “golden” opportunity, most certainly deserved death.  Therefore it was that an odd tough member of the feathered tribe was now and then discussed in secret.  There was little conviviality about these gatherings assembled in back rooms where the light could burn with impunity.  The unsuspecting night-patrol would pass blindly by, oblivious of the illegally illuminated junket within.

But indeed it must be confessed that few people took seriously the wax and tallow proclamation.  The boarding-house keepers, of course, championed it and its author’s wisdom (for reasons)—­with a zeal that contrasted strangely with their condemnation of grander enactments.  Landladies apart, however, the populace pooh-poohed the Gilbertian decree.  Some regarded it as a mere precaution against a surprise visit from the Boers.  But this was wrong, for the proclamation permitted the use of electric and acetylene lights at all hours.  It was purely an economic question with the Colonel.  Cynics opined that we should later on be offered the tallow to eat; and that the prohibition of the use of starch in our linen would be the precursor of some stiff emergency rations.  The public, I say, disregarded the candle law, and the night patrol was kept busy dotting down in the light of the moon the numbers of a thousand houses.  Unfortunately for the ends of Justice