struggling handful of men who had upheld the flag so long.  On the Continent also their resistance attracted the utmost interest, and the numerous journals there who find the imaginative writer cheaper than the war correspondent announced their capture periodically as they had once done that of Ladysmith.  From a mere tin-roofed village Mafeking had become a prize of victory, a stake which should be the visible sign of the predominating manhood of one or other of the great white races of South Africa.  Unconscious of the keenness of the emotions which they had aroused, the garrison manufactured brawn from horsehide, and captured locusts as a relish for their luncheons, while in the shot-torn billiard-room of the club an open tournament was started to fill in their hours off duty.  But their vigilance, and that of the hawk-eyed man up in the Conning Tower, never relaxed.  The besiegers had increased in number, and their guns were more numerous than before.  A less acute man than Baden-Powell might have reasoned that at least one desperate effort would be made by them to carry the town before relief could come.

On Saturday, May 12th, the attack was made at the favourite hour of the Boer—­the first grey of the morning.  It was gallantly delivered by about three hundred volunteers under the command of Eloff, who had crept round to the west of the town—­the side furthest from the lines of the besiegers.  At the first rush they penetrated into the native quarter, which was at once set on fire by them.  The first building of any size upon that side is the barracks of the Protectorate Regiment, which was held by Colonel Hore and about twenty of his officers and men.  This was carried by the enemy, who sent an exultant message along the telephone to Baden-Powell to tell him that they had got it.  Two other positions within the lines, one a stone kraal and the other a hill, were held by the Boers, but their supports were slow in coming on, and the movements of the defenders were so prompt and energetic that all three found themselves isolated and cut off from their own lines.  They had penetrated the town, but they were as far as ever from having taken it.  All day the British forces drew their cordon closer and closer round the Boer positions, making no attempt to rush them, but ringing them round in such a way that there could be no escape for them.  A few burghers slipped away in twos and threes, but the main body found that they had rushed into a prison from which the only egress was swept with rifle fire.  At seven o’clock in the evening they recognised that their position was hopeless, and Eloff with 117 men laid down their arms.  Their losses had been ten killed and nineteen wounded.  For some reason, either of lethargy, cowardice, or treachery, Snyman had not brought up the supports which might conceivably have altered the result.  It was a gallant attack gallantly met, and for once the greater wiliness in fight was shown by the British.  The end was characteristic.  ’Good evening, Commandant,’ said Powell to Eloff; ’won’t you come in and have some dinner?’ The prisoners—­burghers, Hollanders, Germans, and Frenchmen—­were treated to as good a supper as the destitute larders of the town could furnish.