“Right!”

We waited till dark, and then carefully rode to the farm, making as little noise as possible.  When near the house we dismounted, cautiously approached, and peered through a window.  Everything was quiet.  We knocked.  The housewife opened the door, pale and agitated.

“They have not been here yet?” I asked.

“No, but we expect them every minute.”

We brought our horses into the yard, so as to be at hand, and entered the house.

“Your husband is not back yet?”

“No, but they say he is safe.”

The door opened noiselessly, and the man himself stood before us.  He had also taken a look through the window before entering.  He placed his gun in a corner, kissed his wife and children, and shook hands with us.

“We’ve had a hard day;” he said, “let’s go in to supper.”

After the meal, even more silent than is habitual amongst us, where talking at table is almost as bad form as making a joke with a minister would be in Sloper’s Scotland, our host told us that the English had camped on the spot where they had fought, and that he did not think they would march till daylight.  It was best for us to sleep there that night, and leave with him before dawn.

We agreed.

“Father, can I go too?” asked his son, aged thirteen.

“No, my boy, you must stay and help mother to manage the farm.  It will be a long while ere father returns.”

“Oh, father!  I’m too old to stay in the house, like an old woman.  Besides, I’m afraid they will make me prisoner.”

“Do you think they catch children like him?” his mother asked anxiously.

“No, I don’t think they are so cruel,” I replied; “but one can never tell.”

“Well, they won’t get the chance,” said the plucky little fellow.  “As soon as I see them coming, I shall take my mare and go and hide in the hills.”

The mother did not say anything.  She bore up bravely, as our women ever do, Heaven bless them!  Was it not but some ten miles from this very spot that years before a handful of our pioneers had gained the victory at Vecht Kop, when the women loaded the guns and handed them to the men as the latter unflinchingly beat back the tremendous horde of maddened blacks that flung themselves against the hastily drawn circle of waggons.  Does not one old lady still bear the scars of the nineteen stabs she received on that day?  Our women are women indeed, and worthy mothers of the race that yet shall people all Africa and rule itself.

Do not think I am flying too high.  The average Boer family numbers ten children.  Boys are in the majority.  If at present we have thirty thousand warriors (I am not counting the wasters), it follows that in two generations we shall have three hundred thousand.  Taking the proportion then, as now, of ten to one, Britain will have to employ against us in 1940 no less than three million men!  And when that time comes, the children of to-day will have the recollection of the concentration camps and of a few other little trifles to strengthen their backbone.