“There are several in the stable,” he replied, “but they belong to my son, and he is on commando; so I am sorry, but I can’t sell you one.”

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said Delange.  “I’ll give you one of mine for yours, which can then remain here till it gets well.  Should you come round here again one day we can then change back again.”

“But suppose the animal dies?”

“Oh, I’ll risk that.  What is one horse more or less?”

I gratefully accepted this generous offer, and soon had my new acquisition saddled.  It was a lively little nag, and all my weariness passed away as I felt it bound between my knees.  Delange remained here, and my comrade and I continued our journey alone, making for Vrede.

“There’s a Jew a few miles from here,” said the farmer as he bade us good luck, “whom we suspect of treason.  You should try and trap him and take him with you to Vrede.”

Towards dusk we reached the Jew’s store.  We rode up to the building and he came to the door, an intelligent-looking man.

“Good evening,” I said in English, “are there any Boers about?” We were both dressed after the English style.

When the man’s wife heard English spoken she also came to the door and stood by her husband’s side.

“Well, can’t you answer?” The fellow’s face was a study.  He and his wife looked at each other, evidently feeling that some danger was threatening them.

“Sir,” he said at last, speaking with an effort, “I have seen no Boers.”

“Is this the road to Vrede?”

“Yes,” he faltered.

“Thanks.  Good-night,” and we rode away.  It might be easy to shoot a traitor in cold blood, but to try and trap a man into uttering his own condemnation seemed too cruel.

The next place we came to was a miserable-looking hovel standing by the wayside.  The door was opened by an old man.

“Good evening, uncle.  Can you sell us a few bundles of forage?”

“Good evening.  Yes, certainly.  Come inside.  It’s a poor dwelling, but you are welcome.  Johnny, take the horses and put them in the stable.  Won’t you join us at supper?”

Our appetites needed no stimulating, and we at once joined the family, who had just been sitting down to table when we arrived.  After the meal our horses were saddled and brought to the door.

“What do we owe you for the forage?” we asked.  It would be an insult under any circumstance to offer to pay a Boer for a meal, “paying guests” being still unknown to our benighted nation.

“No, my friends,” he said.  “I am poor, but I can’t take your money.  We are all working for our country, and must help each other.”

“That’s true, but you must really allow us to pay.”

“No, no!  A few shillings will make me no richer or poorer.”  It was only with the greatest difficulty that we managed to leave a few shillings on the table.  And this in spite of the fact that he was in the direst poverty.  But this is nothing unusual in South Africa, where hospitality is considered a duty and a pleasure.