February 3.—­Horseflesh was placed frankly on the bill of fare to-day as a ration for troops and civilians alike, but many of the latter refused to take it.  Hunger will probably make them less squeamish, but one cannot help sympathising with the weakly, who are already suffering from want of proper nourishment, and for whom there is no alternative.  Market prices have long since gone beyond the reach of ordinary purses.

February 4.—­One pathetic incident touched me nearly this morning, as a forerunner of many that may come soon.  I found sitting on a doorstep, apparently too weak to move, a young fellow of the Imperial Light Horse—­scarcely more than a boy—­his stalwart form shrunken by illness.  He was toying with a spray of wild jasmine, as if its perfume brought back vague memories of home.  I learned that he had been wounded at Elandslaagte and again on Waggon Hill.  Then came Intombi and malaria.  He had only been discharged from hospital that morning.  His appetite was not quite equal to the horseflesh test, so he had gone without food.  I took him to my room and gave him such things as a scanty store could furnish, with the last dram of whisky for a stimulant, and I never felt more thankful than at that moment for the health and strength that give an appetite robust enough for any fare.

February 5.—­Just now one could not be wakened by a more welcome sound than the boom of Buller’s guns.  It stirred the hazy stillness at dawn this morning like sweet music.  It grew louder and apparently nearer as the morning advanced, until in imagination one could mark the positions of individual batteries pounding away opposite Colenso and Skiet’s drift.  At last the roar died away in sullen growls, giving us the hope that a position had been gained.

February 6.—­Again at daybreak we hear the guns of our relieving force at work in a vigorous cannonade away to the south-west, where Skiet’s Drift lies.  They quicken at times to twenty shots a minute, the field batteries chiming in faintly between the rounds of heavier artillery.  From Observation Hill we can see the enemy’s Creusot on a notched ridge by Doom Kloof replying.  Soon after seven o’clock a lyddite shell bursts there.  Its red glare is followed by flame that does not come from lyddite.  Above this darts a black dense cloud speckled with solid fragments that shoot into the air like bombs.  Before we have time to think that a magazine has been blown up a double report, merging into a low rumble, reaches our ears.  Something has happened to the Boer battery, and the big gun there remains silent.  Buller’s artillery continues firing, more slowly but steadily, at the rate of eight shots a minute, and rifle fire can be heard rolling nearer all the afternoon.  Boers are reported to be inspanning their teams and collecting cattle on the plains.  The distance is dulled by mists, and the Drakensberg peaks are only dimly visible, but there are clouds of dust winding that way, and we know that the Boer waggons are trekking on the off-chance that a general retirement may be forced upon them.  Is this hundredth day of siege to be the last, or shall we wake to-morrow to hear that the Boer laagers are back again, and the relieving force once more south of the Tugela?