Wandering through the long
corridors, with their bare, empty apartments, gazing by the hour on
paintings faded and torn, the work of long dead and forgotten masters,
dwelling on marvels of ancient architecture, resting the eyes on
peaceful landscapes and hearing the sweet murmur of falling waters, the
scenes of war seem distant and remote.
The heart but so lately harrowed by the devouring emotions of anger,
hate, and the lust of blood, now soothed by the sympathy of the kindly
Portuguese, is lulled into harmony with the surrounding scenes of peace
and beauty. Only the thought of our ravaged country, struggling still
for dear life, though forced upon her knees, brings back the claims of
duty and the yearning to be up and doing, to enter once more the ranks
of the foemen and strike another blow for liberty.
Hopeless! Yet where is the Boer--prisoner, exile, or renegade--even
he!--who does not dream by nights he feels once more the free veld air
upon his brow, lives again the wild night rides beneath twinkling stars?
He feels once more his noble steed bound beneath him, grips again his
comrade's welcoming hand, and wakens with a bitter sigh.
Some consolation, then, to recall blows already struck, and duty fairly
done.
THE ELEVENTH OF OCTOBER
When war appeared inevitable the spirit of the Boers rose to support
them in their hour of trial, and only sentiments of patriotism and
defiance were felt and expressed.
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