they had quailed before it; how they had fled before the conquering
Methuen: these and other details, in all their charming vagueness, were
received with rapture. It was fine news; and wounded men in the
hospital, about to die, changed their minds and lived when they heard
it.

We had a visitor--an emissary from the Boers--on Sunday. And though he
turned out to be a Scotchman!--so brimful of hope and good humour were
we that the circumstance detracted little from the cordiality of his
reception. He was a doctor, the doctor whose services had been
commandeered by the practical Boer. Some of us felt disposed to doubt
his nationality; but the gentleman talked Scotch--that is,
English--dialectically and broad; and when he shook hands familiarly
with a few local members of his profession, the sceptics were silenced.
Show me your company, etc., did not apply. The main point, however, was,
his business. What did he want? He wanted medicines, surgical
instruments, and things--a request which occasioned much
shoulder-shrugging _apropos_ of the medico's "nerve." That he served the
Boers in his professional capacity _only_, was evidenced by the candour
with which he opened his heart when queried as to the fortunes of the
family who had taken a loan of him. He admitted a loss of one hundred
killed and wounded Boers in the recent fight. This was rather higher
than our own estimate--and we were not given to minimise on the _wrong_
side. It was wonderful. Whether the learned doctor exaggerated--but why
should he (a Scot) in such a case?--unless indeed the canny one desired
to please and make sure of his medicines. Anyhow he got his medicines
(including a personal prescription, from his "ain country"), and with a
bow of gratitude departed.

The _Diamond Fields' Advertiser_ was quite readable on Monday. It