On this occasion, a Boer gun, cut off by the British advance, flew out suddenly from behind its cover, like a hare from its tussock, and raced for safety across the plain.

Here and there it wound, the horses stretched to their utmost, the drivers stooping and lashing, the little gun bounding behind.

To right to left, behind and before, the British shells burst, lyddite and shrapnel, crashing and riving.

Over the lip of a hollow, the gallant gun vanished, and within a few minutes was banging away once more at the British advance.

With cheers and shouts and laughter, the British infantrymen watched the race for shelter, their sporting spirit rising high above all racial hatred, and hailing with a 'gone to ground' whoop the final disappearance of the gun.
The Durhams had cleared the path, but the other regiments of Lyttelton's Brigade followed hard at their heels, and before night they had firmly established themselves upon the hill.