I saw him often during the fighting at Elands Laagte, Tinta Inyoni, and Lombard's Kop.

He was usually walking about close to the firing line, leading his grey horse, a conspicuous mark for every bullet.

Veteran officers used to marvel that he was not hit.

In the midst of it all he would stand quite unconcerned, and speak in his usual voice--slow, trenchant, restrained by a cynicism that came partly from youth and an English horror of fuss.

How different from the voice of unconsciousness which I heard raving in his room only this morning! To-night we buried him.