CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
THE SERGEANT'S WOUND.
There were the hard stones for our couches, and the air up in the pass was sharp and cold; but we were all pretty close together, and in five minutes it did not seem as if any one was awake, though doubtless the few poor fellows who had been wounded--I may say wonderfully few considering what we had gone through--did not get much sleep.

I was one of those who did lie awake for a time, gazing up at the clear, bright stars which began to peer down through the clearing-off smoke, but only for a few minutes; then a calm, restful feeling began to steal over me, and I was sleeping as sound as if on one of the feather-beds at the farm, where in course of years they had grown plentiful and big.
We were not, however, to pass the night in peace; for directly after, as it seemed to me, I started up in the darkness, roused by firing.

Then the trumpet-call rang out, and we were all up ready for the rush that was in progress; while I was startled and confused, and unable to understand why the now mounted Boers should be guilty of such an insane action as to attack us there, nestling among the stones.

We were all ready, but no orders came to fire, and all crouched or stood with finger on trigger, gradually grasping what it all meant, and listening to the trampling of hoofs going steadily on, till at last the Colonel's familiar voice was heard from close to where I stood.
"Hold your fire, my lads.

We should be doing no good by bringing a few down.