nstance, as much a reconnoitring party as one for
fighting purposes. On its right flank moved a contingent of the Cape
Boy corps, feeling the ground towards the Umguza. This, too, was rather
a scratch force, composed of every conceivable kind of South African
native, but, like the other, of excellent fighting material.

"Say, Ames--what sort of show you think we got?" whispered one of the
volunteers aforesaid, as they drew near the crest of the rise. "Now, if
they was Indians, I guess we'd boost them out of yon White House of
yours in no time, striking them in the dark so."

The speaker was an American, by name Shackleton, commonly called "The
Major," by virtue of his having claimed to hold that rank in Uncle Sam's
regular army. He likewise claimed to have seen service in the Indian
wars on the Plains. In more peaceful times he was a prospector by
occupation.

"Show? Oh, the usual thing," answered John Ames. "We shall get in
touch with each other, and there'll be a big swap in bullets, and a
general hooroosh. They'll all sneak away in the grass, and we shall get
back into camp feeling as if our clothes all wanted letting out. If
there are more of them than we can take care of all at once, why, we
shan't be feeling so vast."

"That so? You ever fight Matabele before?"

"Yes. I was up here with the column in '93. That used to be the
programme then."

The wind was singing in frosty puffs through the grass, bitterly cold.
Riding along in the darkness, the numbed feet of most there advancing
could hardly feel the stirrups. Then upon the raw air arose a sound--a
strange, long-drawn wailing sound, not devoid of rhythm, and
interspersed every now and then with a kind of humming hiss.

"They are holding a war-dance, so there must be plenty of them there,"
whispered John Ames. "Listen! I can hear the words now."

It was even as he said. They were near enough for that. Louder and
louder the war-song of Lobengula swelled forth upon the darkness, coming
from just beyond the rise--

"Woz 'ubone! Woz 'ubone, kiti kwazula! Woz 'ubone! Nants 'indaba.
Indaba yemkonto--Jji-jji! Jji-jji!

"Nants 'indaba. Indaba yezizwe. Akwazimuntu. Jji-jji! Jji-jji!
Woz 'ubone! Nants 'indaba. Indaba kwa Matyobane. Jji-jji!
Jji-jji!"

["Jji-jji" is the cry on striking a foe.]

A translation of the war-song:

"Come behold, come behold, at the High Place!
Come behold. That is the tale--the tale of