The sound of the hoofs beating down on the solid earth came louder and louder over the veld, the firing slackened and then ceased, and a foaming, panting horse brought his burden to where the burghers stood.

The exhausted rider sank to the ground, and men patted the neck and forehead of the quivering beast.
Down in the valley, near the spruit, the foreign military attaches in uniforms quite distinct were watching the effect of the British artillery on the saddle belonging to one of their number.

"They will never hit it," volunteered one, as a shell exploded ten yards distant from the leathern mark.
"They must think it is a crowd of Boers," suggested another, when a dozen shells had fallen without injuring the saddle.

Fifteen, twenty tongues of dust arose, but the leather remained unmarred by scratch or rent, and the attaches became the target of the heavy guns.

"I am hit," groaned Lieutenant Nix, of the Netherlands-Indian army, and his companions caught him in their arms.