The line of advance was dotted with khaki-clad figures, some still in death, some writhing in their agony.

Amid the litter of bodies a major of the Gordons, shot through the leg, sat philosophically smoking his pipe.

Plucky little Chisholm, Colonel of the Imperials, had fallen with two mortal wounds as he dashed forward waving a coloured sash in the air.

So long was the advance and so trying the hill that the men sank panting upon the ground, and took their breath before making another rush.

As at Talana Hill, regimental formation was largely gone, and men of the Manchesters, Gordons, and Imperial Light Horse surged upwards in one long ragged fringe, Scotchman, Englishman, and British Africander keeping pace in that race of death.