ye call her -- grow year
by year, from tenderest infancy to tender childhood, and from
childhood on towards maidenhood. She has been your children's
playmate, she has helped to tend you when sick, and ye have loved
her.'

'We have,' said a deep voice, 'and we will die to save her.'

'I thank you from my heart -- I thank you. Sure am I that now,
in this hour of darkest trouble; now that her young life is like
to be cut off by cruel and savage men -- who of a truth "know
not what they do" -- ye will strive your best to save her, and
to save me and her mother from broken hearts. Think, too, of
your own wives and children. If she dies, her death will be
followed by an attack upon us here, and at the best, even if
we hold our own, your houses and gardens will be destroyed, and
your goods and cattle swept away. I am, as ye well know, a man
of peace. Never in all these years have I lifted my hand to
shed man's blood; but now I say strike, strike, in the name of
God, Who bade us protect our lives and homes. Swear to me,'
he went on with added fervour -- 'swear to me that whilst a man
of you remains alive ye will strive your uttermost with me and
with these brave white men to save the child from a bloody and
cruel death.'

'Say no more, my father,' said the same deep voice, that belonged
to a stalwart elder of the Mission; 'we swear it. May we and
ours die the death of dogs, and our bones be thrown to the jackals
and the kites, if we break the oath! It is a fearful thing to
do, my father, so few to strike at so many, yet will we do it
or die in the doing. We swear!'

'Ay, thus say we all,' chimed in the others.

'Thus say we all,' said I.

'It is well,' went on Mr Mackenzie. 'Ye are true men and not
broken reeds to lean on. And now, friends -- white and black
together -- let us kneel and offer up our humble supplication
to the Throne of Power, praying that He in the hollow of Whose
hand lie all our lives, Who giveth life and giveth death, may
be pleased to make strong our arms that we may prevail in what
awaits us at the morning's light.'

And he knelt down, an example that we all followed except Umslopogaas,
who still stood in the background, grimly leaning on Inkosi-kaas.
The fierce old Zulu had no gods and worshipped nought, unless
it were his battleaxe.

'Oh God of gods!' began the clergyman, his deep voice, tremulous
with emotion, echoing up in the silence even to the leafy roof;
'Protector of the