The echoes of a heavy cannonade were the feature of Tuesday.  This led us to infer that the much-vaunted “siege train” (which was the talk of the city) had begun its work of devastation.  The inspiration of itself would not have been the harbinger of consolation—­we were long listening to sound and fury, meaning nothing—­but we were quick to associate it with the unfurling of the Flag, to put the two “straws” together—­and sigh!

“The Column,” our Gazette asserted, “had made a most successful reconnaissance.”  But experience had taught us how to estimate a bald, non-committal statement of that kind.  Our faith in the Column had been shaken; so much so that cynics hummed, with impunity, that the “little British army goes a long, long way.”  We dared to doubt the bellipotence of the Column.  The wisdom of self-help was brought home to us at last.  We were fast learning to put not our trust in Columns, and to ponder the possibility, handicapped though we were, of hewing from within a way to freedom.

Meanwhile Long Cecil, successfully treated, was again in the arena.  A few “compliments” were jerked at the Kamfers Dam Laager; the Boers were made to feel that they had a foeman to deal with worthy of their lead.  The success of the gun and the skill of him who made it were on every lip.  The theme occasioned as much enthusiasm as could be expected from hearts saddened by disconsolation.  And the man in the moon, too far distant to betray the grimness of his smile, looked silently on.  Favourable accounts of the progress of events in Natal conduced to the serenity of the evening.  The night was so still and grand that it seemed almost a pity to seek refuge in repose; and when ultimately we did persuade ourselves to retire it was to dream of Long Cecil and his potentialities—­a sanguine dream of self-reliance and ability to burst our bonds.

But, oh! what a change came over its spirit in the middle of the night; when startled from our slumbers by the hissing of shells in the streets we awoke to a sense of what was real.  In the blackness of the early morning it was hard to connect the booming of cannon with reality.  The shells were falling and bursting in rapid succession.  It was the inauguration of a nerve-ordeal; the prelude to a terrible day; the beginning of a bombardment long-sustained and fierce.

Not for long did the guns blaze in vain.  A young girl lay dead, struck down in the privacy of her bedroom.  Shell after shell came whistling through the air, jeopardising the reason of scared women, in terror for the safety of their children.  Men rushed about everywhere seeking shelter for their families.  A gentleman walking in the Dutoitspan Road had his hat unroofed, and a young lad was prematurely put out at elbow by a piece of shell which passed through the sleeve of his coat.  Half a score of guns poured forth a heavy fusillade until eight o’clock, when a short interval for breakfast was conceded.