It was grievous to hear of all the Government military provisions, police and private properties, being carted off by the “powers that be,” and not a little annoying for the inhabitants to have to put all their stores at the disposal of the burghers, who had been literally clothed from head to foot since their arrival.  The owners only received a “brief” or note of credit on the Transvaal Government at Pretoria, to be paid after the war.  For fear of exciting curiosity, I did not walk about much, but observed from the windows of my sitting-room the mounted burghers patrolling the town, sometimes at a foot’s pace, more often at a smart canter.  I felt I never wished to see another Boer.  I admitted to myself they sat their horses well and that their rifle seemed a familiar friend, but when you have seen one you have seen them all.  I never could have imagined so many men absolutely alike:  all had long straggling beards, old felt hats, shabby clothes, and some evil-looking countenances.  Most of those I saw were men of from forty to fifty years of age, but there were also a few sickly-looking youths, who certainly did not look bold warriors.  These had not arrived at the dignity of a beard, but, instead, cultivated feeble whiskers.

After I had seen and heard all I could, came the question of getting away.  The manager told me the Landrost had now forbidden any of the residents to leave the town, and that he did not think I could get a pass.  However, my Dutch friend was equal to the occasion; he applied for leave to return to his farm with his sister, having only come in for provisions.  After a long hesitation it was given him, and we decided to set out at daybreak, fearful lest the permission might be retracted, as it certainly would have been had my identity and his deception been discovered, and we should both have been ignominiously lodged in a Boer gaol.  As the sun was rising we left Vryburg.  On the outskirts of the town we were made to halt by eight or ten Boers whose duty it was to examine the passes of travellers.  It can be imagined how my heart beat as I was made to descend from the cart.  I was wearing a shabby old ulster which had been lent me at the hotel for this purpose; round a battered sailor hat I had wound a woollen shawl, which with the help of a veil almost completely concealed my identity.  It had been arranged that Mr. Coleman should tell them I was suffering from toothache and swollen face.  The ordeal of questioning my supposed brother and examining our passports took some minutes—­the longest I have ever experienced.  He contrived to satisfy these inquisitors, and with a feeling of relief we bundled into the cart again and started on our long drive to Mosita.  On that occasion we accomplished the sixty miles in one day, so afraid were we of being pursued.