off their hats as I passed through them.  Once inside the house, I found myself in a low, dark room, and in the farthest corner, seated on a bench, were two old gentlemen, with extra long beards, who were introduced to me as General Snyman and Commandant Botha.[33] I was at once struck by the anything but affable expression of their countenances.  They motioned to me to take a chair; someone handed me a bowl with a brown mixture—­presumably coffee—­which I found very embarrassing to hold during our conversation.  This was carried on through the secretary, and the General got more and more out of temper as he discovered what my request was.  I informed him I had come at the suggestion of his Veldtcornet; that all my relations were in England, except my husband, who was in Mafeking; that there was no meal in the colony where I had been living; and that I was prepared to ask Colonel Baden-Powell to exchange me for a Dutch lady whom I heard wished to leave, if he (General Snyman) would accept the exchange.  He promptly and with much decision refused.  Then it occurred to me this old gentleman meant to keep me as a prisoner of war, and my heart sank into my shoes.  The only concession I could obtain was that he would consider my case, and in the meantime he ordered that I should be accommodated in the field hospital.  Accompanied by the secretary, and leaving the staring crowd behind, I drove off to a little house, about half a mile away, where we found our destination.  I was shown into a tiny room, smelling strongly of disinfectants, which from the large centre-table I at once recognized as the operating-room, and here I was told I could sleep.  I was too tired to care much.  There was no bed, only a broken-down sofa, and in the corner a dilapidated washstand; the walls and windows were riddled with bullets, denoting where the young burghers had been amusing themselves with rifle practice.  The secretary then informed me that they had to search my luggage, which operation lasted fully half an hour, although I had but one small portmanteau and a dressing-case.  The latter two Dutch nurses were told off to look through, which, I am bound to say, they did most unwillingly, remarking to me they had not contemplated searching people’s luggage as part of their already onerous duties.  I had even to undress, in order that they might reassure the officials I had no documents on my person.  Meanwhile the men examined my correspondence and papers almost microscopically.  Needless to say, they found nothing.  They had barely finished their researches, when a messenger came from the General to say, if Colonel Baden-Powell would exchange me for a Dutchman imprisoned in Mafeking, a certain Petrus Viljoen, he would consent to my going in.  I found, on inquiry, that this man had been imprisoned for theft several months before the war, and I told them plainly it was manifestly unfair to exchange a man and a criminal for a woman; further, that I could not even ask Colonel Baden-Powell officially to do such a thing, and could only mention it, as an impossible condition, in a letter to my husband, if they chose to send it in.  To this they agreed, so I indited the following letter, couched in terms which the secretary might peruse: