“I’m tired out after to-day’s work,” Botha said, “but there’s no help for it.  I must sleep in the trenches again to-night.  Walk down with me, your friends down there will be glad to see you.”

After an hour’s walk—­it seemed more like a week—­we reached the trenches, where the young heroes of the Swaziland commando made me welcome.  I asked them about the day’s fighting, but they said—­

“Too tired to talk to-night, old man.  Turn in; to-morrow will do.”

We turned in, and slumbered undisturbed by any thought of the blood shed that day.

Early the next morning we waded through the river, wearing only a hat and shirt, and carrying our topboots over the shoulder.  Dozens of Boers were splashing about in the water, enjoying themselves like so many schoolboys.  Lying strewn about on the other side were scores of dead bodies; by the side of each fallen soldier lay a little pile of empty cartridge cases, showing how long he had battled before meeting his doom.  Some lay with faces serenely upturned to the smiling sky, others doubled up in the agony of a mortal wound, with gnashing teeth fixed in a horrid grin, foam-flecked lips, and widely staring eyes.

Horrible, in truth, but most awful of all was the soul-sickening stench of human blood that infected the air.  We soon turned back, unable to bear it any longer.

“Did your commando lose many men?” I asked my companion.

“Only two, strange to say.  Wonderful; can’t explain it.”

“How did you feel during the fight?”

“When we saw the vast number of soldiers steadily approaching, and heard the thunderous explosion of hundreds of shells, we knew we were in for a hot time.  Our small commando could never have retreated over the four miles of open country behind us.  There was only one thing to be done—­fight.  And we fought—­fought till our gun-barrels burnt our hands and our throats were parched with thirst—­the excitement of it all!”

“Could you see when your bullet went home?”

“You noticed that soldier lying behind the antheap, a hole in his forehead?  That man worried us a good deal. He could shoot, the beggar!  Well, two of us fixed our rifles on the spot and waited till he raised his head; then we fired.  You know the result.”

Boys talking, mere boys, who should have been thinking of flowers, music, and love, instead of thus taking a grim delight in the stern lessons of war.

Saying au revoir to my friends, I now rode over to the telegraph office a few miles lower down.  The operators were transmitting piles of messages to and from anxious relatives, and were not sorry to see someone who could lend them a hand.  The chief of the department happened to be there at the time.  He immediately placed me in harness.  I wired to my field-cornet at Ladysmith saying I was unavoidably detained, as the phrase goes, and the next few weeks passed quietly by, long hours and hard work, it is true, but on the other hand pleasant companions and a splendid river, with boating and swimming galore.