The scenery changes rapidly; the high, bare veldt of the Southern Transvaal is at once left behind, and we enter the broad valley of Natal, sloping steadily down to the sea and becoming richer and more tropical as it descends.

All regular traffic had stopped three days before, but now and then a refugee train came up to the frontier and transhipped its miserable crowd.

Fugitives of every nation have been hurrying to the railway in hopes of escape.

The stations far down into Natal are constantly surrounded with patient groups, waiting, waiting for an empty truck.

Hindoos from Bombay and Madras with their golden nose-rings and brilliant silks sit day and night waiting side by side with coal-black Kaffirs in their blankets, or "blue-blooded" Zulus who refuse to hide much of their deep chocolate skin, showing a kind of purple bloom like a plum.