A fierce fusillade first began from the east, and when I opened the door on to the stoep the din was terrific, while swish, swish, came the bullets just beyond the canvas blinds, nailed to the edge of the verandah to keep off the sun.

Now and then the boom of a small gun varied the noise, but the rifles never ceased for an instant.
To this awe-inspiring tune I dressed, by the light of a carefully shaded candle, to avoid giving any mark for our foes.

The firing never abated, and I had a sort of idea that any moment a Dutchman would look in at the door, for one could not tell from what side the real attack might be.

In various stages of deshabille people were running round the house seeking for rifles, fowling-pieces, and even sticks, as weapons of defence.
Meanwhile the gloom was still unbroken, but for the starlight, and it was very cold.

The Cockney waiter, who was such a fund of amusement to me, had dashed off with his rifle to his redoubt, taking the keys of the house in his pocket, so no one could get into the dining-room to have coffee, except through the kitchen window.