The smoke did not rise high; it hung sullenly over the hot plain in long smouldering masses, like the smoke of steamers on foggy days in England.

The sun was nearing the horizon; his slant red rays lighted up the red plain, the red sand, the brown-red grasses, with a murky, spectral glow of crimson.
After those red pools of blood, this universal burst of redness appalled one.

It seemed as though all nature had conspired in one unholy league with the Matabele.

We rode on without a word.

The red sky grew redder.
"They may have sacked Salisbury!" I exclaimed at last, looking out towards the brand-new town.
"I doubt it," Hilda answered.