d men armed only with pocket-knives do against
such a multitude?

Presently, amidst a hideous tumult of shouts, groans, curses, prayers
for mercy, and Zulu battle cries, the Boers were all struck down--yes,
even the two little lads and the Hottentot servants. Then they were
dragged away, still living, by the soldiers, their heels trailing on the
ground, just as wounded worms or insects are dragged by the black ants.

Dingaan was standing by me now, laughing, his fat face working
nervously.

"Come, Son of George," he said, "and let us see the end of these
traitors to your sovereign."

Then I was pulled along to an eminence within the labyrinth, whence
there was a view of the surrounding country. Here we waited a little
while, listening to the tumult that grew more distant, till presently
the dreadful procession of death reappeared, coming round the fence of
the Great Kraal and heading straight for the Hill of Slaughter, Hloma
Amabutu. Soon its slopes were climbed, and there among the dark-leaved
bushes and the rocks the black soldiers butchered them, every one.

I saw and swooned away.

I believe that I remained senseless for many hours, though towards the
end of that time my swoon grew thin, as it were, and I heard a hollow
voice speaking over me in Zulu.

"I am glad that the little Son of George has been saved," said the
echoing voice, which I did not know, "for he has a great destiny and
will be useful to the black people in time to come." Then the voice went
on:

"O House of Senzangacona! now you have mixed your milk with blood, with
white blood. Of that bowl you shall drink to the dregs, and afterwards
must the bowl be shattered"; and the speaker laughed--a deep, dreadful
laugh that I was not to hear again for years.

I heard him go away, shuffling along like some great reptile, and then,
with an effort, opened my eyes. I was in a large hut, and the only light
in the hut came from a fire that burned in its centre, for it was night
time. A Zulu woman, young and good-looking, was bending over a
gourd near the fire, doing something to its contents. I spoke to her
light-headedly.

"O woman," I said, "is that a man who laughed over me?"

"Not altogether, Macumazahn," she answered in a pleasant voice. "That
was Zikali, the Mighty Magician, the Counsellor of Kings, the Opener of
Roads; he whose birth our grandfathers do not remember; he whose breath
causes the trees to be torn out by the roots; he whom Ding