en never
wavered, never showed a sign of fear. Taking shelter behind the boles of
trees, or the bodies of their dead horses, they answered the fire shot
for shot, coolly, with perfect aim, without haste or hurry.

The bush around told this tale of them in after days, for the bark of
every tree was scored with bullets, showing that wherever an enemy had
exposed his head there a ball had been sent to seek him. Also there was
another testimony--that of the bones of the dead Matabele, the majority
of whom had clearly fallen shot through the brain. The natives
themselves state that for every white man who died upon that day, there
perished at least ten of their own people, picked off, be it remembered,
singly as they chanced to expose themselves. Nor did the enemy waste
life needlessly, for their general ordered up the King's elephant
hunters, trained shots, every one of them, to compete with the white
man's fire.

For two long hours or more that fight went on. Now and again a man was
killed, and now and again a man was wounded, but the wounded still
continued to load the rifles that they could not fire, handing them to
those of their companions who were as yet unhurt. At some period during
the fray, so say the Matabele, the white men began to 'sing.' What is
meant by the singing we can never know, but probably they cheered aloud
after repelling a rash of the enemy. At length their fire grew faint and
infrequent, till by degrees it flickered away, for men were lacking to
handle the rifles. One was left, however, who stood alone and erect in
the ring of the dead, no longer attempting to defend himself, either
because he was weak with wounds, or because his ammunition was
exhausted. There he stood silent and solitary, presenting one of the
most pathetic yet splendid sights told of in the generation that he
adorned. There was no more firing now, but the natives stole out of
their cover and came up to the man quietly, peering at him half afraid.
Then one of them lifted his assegai and drove it through his breast.
Still he did not fall; so the soldier drew out the spear and, retreating
a few yards, he hurled it at him, transfixing him. Now, very slowly,
making no sound, the white man sank forward upon his face, and so lay
still.

There seems to be little doubt but that this man was none other than
Major Allan Wilson, the commander of the patrol. Native reports of his
stature and appearance suggest this, but there is a stronger