“Come!” he shouted, “take him out of this;” and accordingly, with taunts, curses and obloquy, the poor old man, whose fringe of white locks was red with blood, was kicked and pushed on to the verandah, then off it on to the drive. Here he fell over the body of the murdered Kafir boy, but finally he was dragged to the open space by the flagstaff, on which the Union Jack that he had hoisted there some two months before still waved bravely in the breeze. There he sank down upon the grass, his back against the flagstaff, and asked faintly for some water. Bessie, who was weeping bitterly, and whose heart felt as though it were bursting with anguish and indignation, pushed her way through the men, and, running to the house, filled a glass and brought it to him. One of the brutes tried to knock it out of her hand, but she avoided him and gave it to her uncle, who drank it greedily.
“Thank you, love, thank you,” he said; “don’t be frightened, I ain’t much hurt. Ah! if only John had been here, and we had had an hour’s notice, we would have held the place against them all.”
Meanwhile one of the Boers, climbing on to the shoulders of another, had succeeded in untying the cord on which the Union Jack was bent, and hauled it down. Then they reversed it and hoisted it half-mast high, and began to cheer for the Republic.
“Perhaps Uncle Silas does not know that we are a Republic again now,” said one of the men, a near neighbour of his own, in mockery.
“What do you mean by a Republic?” asked the old man. “The Transvaal is a British colony.”
There was a hoot of derision at this. “The English Government has surrendered,” said the same man. “The country is given up, and the British are to evacuate it in six months.”
“It is a lie!” said Silas, springing to his feet, “a cowardly lie! Whoever says that the English have given up the country to a few thousand blackguards like you, and deserted its subjects and the loyals and the natives, is a liar—a liar from hell!”
There was another howl of mockery at this outburst, and when it had subsided Frank Muller stepped forward.
“It is no lie, Silas Croft,” he said, “and the cowards are not we Boers, who have beaten you again and again, but your soldiers, who have done nothing but run away, and your Mr. Gladstone, who follows the example of your soldiers. Look here”—and he took a paper out of his pocket—“you know that signature, I suppose? It is that of one of the Triumvirate. Listen to what he says,” and he read aloud:—
“‘Well-beloved Heer Muller,—this is to inform you that, by the strength of our arms fighting for the right and freedom, and also by the cowardice of the British Government, generals, and soldiers, we have by the will of the Almighty concluded this day a glorious peace with the enemy. The Heer Gladstone surrenders nearly everything except in the name. The Republic is to be re-established, and the soldiers who are left will leave the land within six months. Make this known to everyone, and forget not to thank God for our glorious victories.’”