After we had passed the castle
the dusk grew rapidly darker and the road narrower and more muddy.
Although camp fires twinkled from every level space, the never ending
stream of fugitives seemed to grow no less. Darkness only added to the
tragic mystery of the flight. The bullock carts poured along, the
soldiers crowded by.
A horse went down, the owner stripped the saddle off, flung it into a
cart and cursing stumbled on into the darkness. The carts following took
no notice of the poor horse but drove over it, the wheel lifting as they
rolled across its body. We shouted to the owner; but he was gone, so we
turned one or two of the carts off, and made them go round. But we could
not stay there all night. The horse was too done, and too much injured
by the cruel passage to move, so Jan reluctantly pulled out his
"automatic" and, standing clear of its hoofs, put two bullets through
its brain. It shuddered, lifted two hoofs and beat the air and sank into
a heap.
On we went progressing for mile after mile in the mire, but never a
house did we see, nor a spot to camp on.
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