Instead of retiring, they calmly lay down and fired into the thick of the Boers whenever they saw them.

Apparently the Boers had intended some sort of attack or feint, but, instead of advancing, they remained hidden in the donga, firing over the banks.

At last Major Grattan, fearing the brave little picket might be cut off, sent out two infantry patrols in extended order, and the Boers did not await their coming; they hurried up the donga into the shelter of the thorns, which just now are all golden with balls of sweet-smelling blossom.
Soon after the sun set behind the storm of rain the fighting ceased.

The long and terrible day was done.

I found myself with the Irish Fusiliers at Range Post, where the road crosses to the foot of Waggon Hill.