It was a touching sight to see the burly Dutchman, his hat off, his broad face lit up by the last rays of the setting sun, praying aloud in homely, simple language to Him who alone could save us from the spears of a cruel foe.

I remember that the last sentence of his prayer was, "Almighty, if we must be killed, save the women and children and my little girl Tota from the accursed Zulus, and do not let us be tortured." I echoed the request very earnestly in my own heart, that I know, for in common with the others I was dreadfully afraid, and it must be admitted not without reason.
Then the darkness came on, and we took up our appointed places each with a rifle in his hands and peered out into the gloom in silence.
Occasionally one of the Boers would light his pipe with a brand from the smouldering fire, and the glow of it would shine for a few moments on his pale, anxious face.
Behind me one of the stout "fraus" lay upon the ground.

Even the terror of our position could not keep her heavy eyes from their accustomed sleep, and she snored loudly.

On the further side of her, just by the fire, lay little Tota, wrapped in a kaross.

She was asleep also, her thumb in her mouth, and from time to time her father would come to look at her.
So the hours wore on while we waited for the Zulus.