“We are done for,” and then add in Zulu, “Let me speak to the king!”

Dingaan heard also, and waved his hand to show that he refused to listen, and as he did so shouted thrice: 

“Bulala abatagati!” that is, Slay the wizards!

I saw poor Halstead draw his knife and plunge it into a Zulu who was near him.  The man fell, and again he struck at another soldier, cutting his throat.  The Boers also drew their knives—­those of them who had time—­and tried to defend themselves against these black devils, who rushed on them in swarms.  I heard afterwards that they succeeded in killing six or eight of them and wounding perhaps a score.  But it was soon over, for what could 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?”