In the meantime food was certainly becoming very short, and on April 3 I cabled to my sister in London as follows:  “Breakfast to-day, horse sausages; lunch, minced mule, curried locusts.  All well.”  Occasionally I used to be allowed a tiny white roll for breakfast, but it had to last for dinner too.  Mr. Weil bought the last remaining turkey for L5, with the intention of giving a feast on Her Majesty’s birthday, and the precious bird had to be kept under a Chubb’s lock and key till it was killed.  No dogs or cats were safe, as the Basutos stole them all for food.  But all the while we were well aware our situation might have been far worse.  The rains were over, the climate was glorious, fever was fast diminishing, and, in spite of experiencing extreme boredom, we knew that the end of the long lane was surely coming.

CHAPTER XIII

     ELOFF’S DETERMINED ATTACK ON MAFEKING, AND THE RELIEF OF THE
     TOWN—­THE MAFEKING FUND

     “War, war is still the cry—­war even to the knife!”—­BYRON.

“The Boers are in the stadt!” Such was the ominous message that was quickly passed round from mouth to mouth on Saturday morning, May 12, 1900, as day was breaking.  One had to be well acquainted with the labyrinth of rocks, trees, huts, and cover generally, of the locality aforementioned, all within a stone’s-throw of our dwelling, to realize the dread import of these words.

All the previous week things had been much as usual:  inferior food, and very little of it; divine weather; “bridge” in the afternoons; and one day exactly like another.  Since the departure of the big gun during the previous month, we had left our bomb-proofs and lived above-ground.  In the early hours of the morning alluded to came the real event we had been expecting ever since the beginning of the siege—­namely, a Boer attack under cover of darkness.  The moon had just set, and it was pitch-dark.  A fierce fusillade first began from the east, and when I opened the door on to the stoep the din was terrific, while swish, swish, came the bullets just beyond the canvas blinds, nailed to the edge of the verandah to keep off the sun.  Now and then the boom of a small gun varied the noise, but the rifles never ceased for an instant.  To this awe-inspiring tune I dressed, by the light of a carefully shaded candle, to avoid giving any mark for our foes.  The firing never abated, and I had a sort of idea that any moment a Dutchman would look in at the door, for one could not tell from what side the real attack might be.  In various stages of deshabille people were running round the house seeking for rifles, fowling-pieces, and even sticks, as weapons of defence.  Meanwhile the gloom was still unbroken, but for the starlight, and it was very cold.  The Cockney waiter, who was such a fund of amusement to me, had dashed off with his rifle to his redoubt, taking the keys of the house in his pocket, so no