 DEDICATION OF ALAN'S WIFE. ALAN'S WIFE BY H. RYDER HAGGARD. DEDICATION My dear Makuma Zahan, it was your native name which I borrowed at the christening of that Alan, who has become as well known to me as any other friend I have. It is therefore fitting that I should dedicate to you this, his last tale, the story of his wife, and the history of some further adventures which befell him. They will remind you of many an African yarn that with the baboons may recall an experience of your own which I did not share, and perhaps they will do more than this. Perhaps they will bring back to you some of the long past romance of days that are lost to us. The country of which Alan Quatermain tells his tale is now, for the most part, as well known and explored as are the fields of Norfolk, where we shot, and trekked, and galloped, scarcely seeing the face of civilised man, there the gold-seeker builds his cities. The shadow of the flag of Britain has, for a while, ceased to fall on the transvol planes. The game has gone. The misty charm of the morning has become the glare of day. All is changed. The blue gums that we planted in the garden of the palatial must be large trees by now, and the palatial itself has passed from us. Jess sat in it waiting for her love after we were gone. There she nursed him back to life. But Jess is dead, and strangers own it, or perhaps it is a ruin. For us too, Macuma Zahan, as for the land we loved, the mystery and promise of the morning are outworn. The midday sun burns overhead, and at times the way is weary. Few of those who we knew are left. Some are victims to battle and murder, their bones strewn the belt. Death has taken some in a more gentle fashion. Others are hidden from us. We know not where. We might well fear to return to that land, lest we should also see ghosts. But though we walk apart to-day, the past yet looks upon us with its unalterable eyes. Still we can remember many a boyish enterprise and adventure, lightly undertaken, which now would strike us as hazardous indeed. Still we can recall the long familiar line of the Pretoria horse, the face of war and panic, the weariness of midnight patrols, eye, and hear the roar of guns echoed from the shameful hill. To you then, Macuma Zahan, in perpetual memory of those eventful years of youth which we passed together in the African towns and on the African belt, I dedicate these pages, subscribing myself now as always, your sincere friend, Indanda. To Arthur H. D. Cochran, Asquire. CHAPTER I It may be remembered that in the last pages of his diary, written just before his death, Allen Quartermain makes allusions to his long-dead wife, stating that he has written of her fully elsewhere. When his death was known, his papers were handed to myself as his literary executor. Among them I found two manuscripts of which the following is one. The other is simply a record of events wherein Mr. Quartermain was not personally concerned, a Zulu novel, the story of which was told to him by the hero many years after the tragedy had occurred. But with this we have nothing to do at present. I have often thought, Mr. Quartermain's manuscript begins, that I would set down on paper the events connected with my marriage and the loss of my most dear wife. Many years have now passed since that event, and to some extent time has softened the old grief, though heaven knows it is still keen enough. On two or three occasions I have even begun the record. Once I gave it up because the writing of it depressed me beyond bearing. Because I was suddenly called away upon a journey, and the third time because a cafe-boy found my manuscript convenient for lighting the kitchen fire. But now I am at leisure here in England. I will make a fourth attempt. If I succeed the story may serve to interest someone in after years when I am dead and gone. Before that I should not wish it to be published. It is a wild tale enough and suggests some curious reflections. I am the son of a missionary. My father was originally curate in charge of a small parish in Oxfordshire. He had already been some ten years married to my dear mother when he went there, and he had four children of whom I was the youngest. I remember faintly the place where we lived. It was an ancient long grey house facing the road. There was a very large tree of some sort in the garden. It was hollow and we children used to play about inside of it and knock knots of wood from the rough bark. We all slept in a kind of attic, and my mother always came and kissed us when we were in bed. I used to wake up and see her bending over me, candle in her hand. There was a curious kind of pole projecting from the wall over my head. Once I was dreadfully frightened because my oldest brother made me hang to it by my hands. That is all I remember about our old home. It has been pulled down long ago, or I would journey there to see it. A little further down the road was a large house with big iron gates to it, and on top of the gate pillars sat two stone lions which were so hideous that I was afraid of them. Perhaps this sentiment was prophetic. One could see the house by peeking through the bars of the gates. It was a gloomy looking place with a tall ewe hedge round it, but in the summer time some flowers grew about the sundial in the grass-plat. This house was called the Hall, and Squire Carson lived there. One Christmas it must have been the Christmas before my father emigrated, or I should not remember it. We children went to a Christmas tree festivity at the Hall. There was a great party there, and footmen wearing red waist-cuts stood at the door. In the dining-room which was paneled with black oak was the Christmas tree. Squire Carson stood in front of it. He was a tall dark man, very quiet in his manners, and he wore a bunch of seals on his waist-cut. We used to think him old, but as a matter of fact he was then not more than forty. He had been, as I afterwards learned, a great traveller in his youth, and some six or seven years before this date he married a lady who was half a Spaniard, a papest, my father called her, and I can remember her well. She was small and very pretty, with a rounded figure, large black eyes, and glittering teeth. She spoke English with a curious accent. I suppose that I must have been a funny child to look at, and I know that my hair stood up on my head then as it does now, for I still have a sketch of myself that my mother made of me, in which this peculiarity is strongly marked. On this occasion on the Christmas tree I remember that Mrs. Carson turned to a tall, foreign-looking gentleman who stood beside her, and, tapping him affectionately on the shoulder with her gold eyeglasses, said, Look, Cuthin, look at that tall little boy with the big brown eyes. His hair is like a, what you call him, scrapping brach, or what a droll little boy. The tall gentleman pulled at his moustache, and, taking Mrs. Carson's hand in his, began to smooth my hair down with it till I heard her whisper, Let go of my hand, Thomas is looking like the thunder-thorn. Thomas was the name of Mr. Carson, her husband. After that I hid myself as well as I could behind a chair, for I was shy, and watched little Stella Carson, who was the squire's only child, giving the children presents off the Christmas tree. She was dressed as Father Christmas, with some soft white stuff round her lovely little face, and she had large, dark eyes, which I thought more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. At last it came to my turn to receive a present, oddly enough, considered in the light of future events. It was a large monkey. Stella reached it down from one of the lower boughs of the tree, and handed it to me, saying, That is my Christmas present to you, little Alan Gortemaine! As she did so, her sleeve, which was covered with cotton wool, spangled over with something that shone, touched one of the tapers, and caught fire. How I do not know! And the flame ran up her arm towards her throat. She stood quite still. I suppose that she was paralysed with fear, and the ladies who were near screened very loud, but did nothing. Then some impulse seized me. Perhaps instinct would be a better word to use, considering my age. I threw myself upon the child, and beating at the fire with my hands mercifully succeeded in extinguishing it before it really got hold. My wrists were so badly scorched that they had to be wrapped up in wool for a long time afterwards. But with the exception of a single burn upon her throat, little Stella Carson was not much hurt. That is all I remember about the Christmas tree at the hall. What happened afterwards is lost to me, but to this day in my sleep I sometimes see little Stella's sweet face and the stare of terror in her dark eyes as the fire ran up her arm. This, however, is not wonderful, for I, humanly speaking, saved the life of her who was destined to be my wife. The next event which I can recall clearly is that my mother and three brothers all fell ill of fever, owing, as I afterwards learned, to the poisoning of our well by some evil-minded person who threw a dead sheep into it. It must have been while they were ill that Squire Carson came one day to the vicarage. The weather was still cold, for there was a fire in the study, and I sat before the fire writing letters on a piece of paper with a pencil, while my father walked up and down the room talking to himself. Afterwards I knew that he was praying for the lives of his wife and children. Presently a servant came to the door and said that someone wanted to see him. It's the Squire, sir, said the maid, and he says he particularly wishes to see you. Very well, answered my father wearily, and presently Squire Carson came in. His face was white and haggard, and his eyes shone so fiercely that I was afraid of him. Forgive me for intruding on you at such a time, quarter-main, he said in a hoarse voice, but tomorrow I leave this place forever, and I wish to speak to you before I go. Indeed I must speak to you. Shall I send Allen away? said my father, pointing to me. Narrow let him by, he will not understand. Nor indeed did I at the time, but I remembered every word, and in after years their meaning grew on me. First tell me, he went on, how are they? and he pointed upstairs with his thumb. My wife and two of the boys are beyond hope, my father answered with a groan. I do not know how it will go with the third. The lords will be done. The lords will be done. The Squire echoed solemnly. And now, quarter-main, listen, my wife's gone. Gone? my father answered, who with? Without foreign cousin of hers it seems from a letter she left me that she always cared for him, not me. She married me because she thought me a rich Englishman-lord. Now she's run through my property, or most of it, and gone. I don't know where. Luckily she did not care to encumber her new career with a child. Stella is left to me. That is what comes of marrying a papist, Carson, said my father. That was his fault. He was as good and charitable a man as ever lived, but he was bigoted. What are you going to do? Follow her? He laughed bitterly in answer. Follow her? He said. Why should I follow her? If I met her, I might kill her or him, or both of them, because of the disgrace they brought upon my child's name. No. I never want to look upon her face again. I trusted her. I tell you, and she has betrayed me. Let her go and find her fate. But I am going too. I am weary of my life. Surely, Carson, surely, said my father, you do not mean. No, no, not that. Death comes soon enough. But I will leave this civilised world which is a lie. We will go right away into the wilds, I and my child, and hide our shame. Where? I don't know where. Anywhere, so long as there are no white faces, no smooth educated tongues. You are mad, Carson, my father answered. How will you live? How can you educate Stella? Be a man and wear it down. I will be a man, and I will wear it down, but not here, quarter-main. Education was not she, that woman who was my wife, was not she highly educated, the cleverest woman in the country for sooth. Too clever for me, quarter-main, too clever by half. No, no, Stella shall be brought up in a different school if it be possible. She shall forget her very name. Goodbye, old friend, goodbye forever. Do not try to find me out. Henceforth I shall be like one dead to you, to you and all I knew. And he was gone. Mad, said my father with a heavy sigh, his trouble has turned his brain, but he will think better of it. At that moment the nurse came hurrying in and whispered something in his ear. My father's face turned deadly pale. He clutched at the table to support himself and staggered from the room. My mother was dying. It was some days afterwards, I do not know exactly how long, but my father took me by the hand and led me upstairs into the big room which had been my mother's bedroom. There she lay, dead in her coffin with flowers in her hand. Along the wall of the room were arranged three little white beds, and on each of the beds lay one of my brothers. They all looked as though they were asleep, and they all had flowers in their hands. My father told me to kiss them because I should not see them any more, and I did so, though I was very frightened. I did not know why. Then he took me in his arms and kissed me. The Lord hath given, he said, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. I cried very much, and he took me downstairs, and after that I have only a confused memory of men dressed in black carrying heavy burdens towards the great churchyard. Next comes a vision of a great ship and wide, tossing waters. My father could not bear to live in England after the loss that had fallen on him, and made up his mind to emigrate to South Africa. We must have been poor at the time, indeed. I believe that a large portion of our income went from my father on my mother's death. At any rate we travelled with the steerage passengers, and the intense discomfort of the journey with the rough ways of our fellow emigrants still remain upon my mind. At last it came to an end, and we reached Africa, which I was not to leave again for many, many years. In those days civilization had not made any great progress in Southern Africa. My father went up the country and became a missionary among the Cafiers. Near to where the town of Craddock now stands, and here I grew to manhood. There were a few boar farmers in the neighbourhood, and, gradually, a little settlement of whites gathered round our mission station. A drunken Scotch blacksmith and wheel-wright was about the most interesting character, who, when he was sober, could quote the Scottish poet Burns, and the Ingaldsby legends, then recently published literally by the page. It was from that that I contracted a fondness for the latter amusing writings, which has never left me. Burns I never cared for so much, probably because of the Scottish dialect, which repelled me. What little education I got was from my father, but I never had much leaning towards books, nor he much time to teach them to me. On the other hand I was always a king observer of the ways of men and nature. By the time that I was twenty I could speak Dutch, and three or four Cafier dialects perfectly. And I doubt if there was anybody in South Africa who understood native ways of thought and action more completely than I did. Also I was really a very good shot and horseman, and I think, as indeed my subsequent career proves to have been the case, a great deal tougher than the majority of men. Though I was then, as now, light and small, nothing seemed to tire me. I could bear any amount of exposure and privation, and I never met the native who was my master in feats of endurance. Of course all that is different now, I am speaking of my early manhood. It may be wondered that I did not run absolutely wild in such surroundings, that I was held back from this by my father's society. He was one of the gentlest and most refined men that I ever met. Even the most savage Cafier loved him, and his influence was a very good one for me. He used to call himself one of the world's failures, would that there were more such failures. Every morning when his work was done he would take his prayer-book, and, sitting on the little stoop over and over our station, would read the evening psalms to himself. Sometimes there was not light enough for this, but it made no difference. He knew them all by heart. When he had finished he would look out across the cultivated lands where the mission Cafiers had their huts. But I knew it was not these he saw, but rather the grey English church, and the graves ranged side by side before the U near the wicked gate. It was there on the stoop that he died. He had not been well, and one evening I was talking to him, and his mind went back to Oxfordshire and my mother. He spoke of her a good deal, saying that she had never been out of his mind for a single day during all these years, and that he rejoiced to think he was drawing near that land with her she had gone. Then he asked me if I remembered the night when Squire Carson came into the study at the Vickridge, and told him that his wife had run away, and that he was going to change his name and bury himself in some remote land. I answered that I remembered it perfectly. I wonder where he went to, said my father, and if he and his daughter Stella are still alive. Oh, well. I shall never meet them again. But life is a strange thing, Allen, and you may. If you ever do, give them my kind love. After that I left him. We had been suffering more than usual from the depredations of the Cafia Thieves, who stole our sheep at night, and, as I had done before and not without success, I determined to watch the crawl and see if I could catch them. Indeed it was from this habit of mine of watching at night that I first got my native name of Makuma Zahan, which may be roughly translated as, He Who Sleeps With One Eye Open. So I took my rifle and rose to go, but he called me to him and kissed me on the forehead, saying, God bless you, Allen. I hope that you will think of your old father sometimes, and that you will lead a good and happy life. I remember that I did not much like his tone at the time, but set it down to an attack of low spirits, to which he grew very subject as the years went on. I went down to the crawl and watched till within an hour of sunrise, then, as no thieves appeared, returned to the station. As I came near I was astonished to see a figure sitting in my father's chair. At first I thought it must be a drunken Cafia, then that my father had fallen asleep there, and so he had. For he was dead. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Allen's Wife This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Allen's Wife by H. Rider Haggard Chapter 2 The Firefight When I had buried my father and seen a successor and soul in his place, for the station was the property of the society, I set to work to carry out a plan which I had long cherished, but been unable to execute because it would have involved separation from my father. But shortly it was to undertake a trading journey of exploration right through the countries now known as the Free State and the Transvaal, and as much further north as I could go. It was an adventurous scheme, for although the immigrant Boers had begun to occupy positions in these territories, they were still to all practical purposes, unexplored. But I was now alone in the world, and it mattered little what became of me, so driven on by the over-mastering love of adventure, which old as I am will perhaps still be the cause of my death, I determined to undertake the journey. Accordingly I sold such stock and goods as we had upon the station, reserving only the two best wagons and two spans of oxen. The proceeds I invested in such goods as were then in fashion for trading purposes, and in guns and ammunition. The guns would have moved any modern explorer to merriment, but such as they were I managed to do a good deal of execution with them. One of them was a single barrelled, smooth bore fitted for percussion caps, a roar we called it, which threw a three ounce bore and was charged with a handful of coarse black powder. Many is the elephant that I killed without roar, though it generally knocked me backwards when I fired it, which I only did under compulsion. The best of the lot perhaps was a double barrelled number twelve shotgun, but it had flint locks. Also there were some old tower muskets which might or might not throw straight at seventy yards. I took six kaphiers with me and three good horses which were supposed to be salted, that is proof against the sickness. Among the kaphiers was an old fellow named Indaba Zimbi, which, being translated means a tongue of iron, I suppose he got this name from his strident voice and exhaustless eloquence. This man was a great character in his way. He had been a noted witch doctor among a neighbouring tribe and came to the station under the following circumstances, which, as he plays a considerable part in this history, are perhaps worth recording. Two years before my father's death, I had occasion to search the country round for some lost oxen. After a long and useless quest it occurred to me that I had better go to the place where the oxen were bred by a kaphier chief, whose name I forget, but whose crawl was about fifty miles from our station. There I journeyed and found the oxen safe at home. The chief entertained me handsomely, and on the following morning I went to pay my respects to him before leaving, and was somewhat surprised to find a collection of some hundreds of men and women sitting round him anxiously watching the sky in which the thunder-clowns were banking up in a very ominous way. You had better wait, wide man, said the chief, and see the rain-doctors fight the lightning. I inquired what he meant, and learned that this man, Indaba Zimbi, had for some years occupied the position of wizard-in-chief to the tribe, although he was not a member of it, having been born in the country now known as Zululand. But as son of the chiefs, a man of about thirty, had lately set up as a rival in supernatural powers, this irritated Indaba Zimbi beyond measure, and the quarrel ensued between the two witch-doctors that resulted in a challenge to trial by lightning being given and accepted. These were the conditions. The rivals must await the coming of a serious thunderstorm, no ordinary tempest would serve their turn. Then carrying asagais in their hands, they must take their stand within fifty paces of each other upon a certain patch of ground where the big thunderbolts were observed to strike continually, and by the exercise of their occult powers and invocations to the lightning, must strive to avert death from themselves and bring it on their rival. The terms of this singular match had been arranged a month previously, but no storm worthy of the occasion had arisen. Now the local weather-profits believed it to be brewing. I enquire about what happened if neither of the men were struck and was told that they must then wait for another storm. If they escaped the second time, however, they would be held to be equal in power, and be jointly consulted by the tribe upon occasions of importance. The prospect of being a spectator of so unusual a sight overcame my desire to be gone, and I accepted the chief's invitation to see it out. Before midday I regretted it, for though the western heavens grew darker and darker, and the still air heralded the coming of the storm, yet it did not come. By four o'clock, however, it became obvious that it must burst soon at sunset, the old chief said, and in the company of the whole assembly I moved down to the place of combat. The crawl was built on the top of a hill, and below it the land sloped gently to the banks of a river about half a mile away. On the hither side of the bank was a piece of land that was, the natives said, loved of the lightning. Here the magicians took up their stand while the spectators grouped themselves on the hillside about two hundred yards away, which was, I thought, rather too near to be pleasant. When we had sat there for a while, my curiosity overcame me, and I asked leave of the chief to go down and inspect the arena. He said I might do so at my own risk. I told him that the fire from above would not hurt white men, and went to find that the spot was a bed of iron ore thinly covered with grass, which of course accounted for its attracting the lightning from the storms as they travelled along the line of the river. At each end of this iron stone area were placed the combatants, Indaba Zimbi facing the east, and his rival the west, and before each there burned a little fire made of some scented root. Moreover they were dressed in all the paraphernalia of their craft, snake-skins, fish-bladders, and I know not what beside, while round their necks hung circlates of baboon's teeth, and bones from human hands. First I went to the western end where the chief's son stood. He was pointing with his asagai towards the advancing storm, and invoking it in a voice of great excitement. Come fire and lick up Indaba Zimbi. Hear me, storm devil, and lick Indaba Zimbi with your red tongue. Spit on him with your rain. Whirl him away in your breath. Make him as nothing melt the marrow in his bones. Run into his heart and burn away the lies. Show all the people who is the true witchfinder. Let me not be put to shame in the eyes of this white man. Thus he spoke, or rather chanted, and all the while rubbed his broad chest, for he was a very fine man with some filthy compound of medicine or mootie. After a while getting tired of his song, I walked across the iron stone to where Indaba Zimbi sat by his fire. He was not chanting at all, but his performance was much more impressive. It consisted of staring at the eastern sky, which was perfectly clear of cloud, and every now and again beckoning at it with his finger, then turning round to point with the asagai towards his rival. For a while I looked at him in silence. He was a curious, wizened man, apparently over fifty years of age, with thin hands that looked as tough as wire. His nose was much sharper than as usual among these races, and he had a queer habit of holding his head sideways like a bird when he spoke, which in addition to the humour that lurked in his eye, gave him a most comical appearance. Another strange thing about him was that he had a single white lock of hair among his black wool. At last I spoke to him. Indaba Zimbi, my friend, I said, you may be a good witch doctor, but you are certainly a fool. It is no good beckoning at the blue sky while your enemy is getting a start with a storm. You may be clever, but don't think you know everything, white man. The old fellow answered, in a high, cracked voice, and with something like a grin. They call you iron tongue, I went on. You had better use it or the storm devil won't hear you. The fire from above runs down iron, he answered. So I keep my tongue quiet, or else let him curse away. I'll put him out presently, look now, white man. I looked, and in the eastern sky there grew a cloud. At first it was small, though very black, but it gathered with extraordinary rapidity. This was odd enough, but as I had seen the same thing happen before it did not particularly astonish me. It is by no means unusual in Africa for two thunderstorms to come up at the same time from different points of the compass. You had better get on, Indaba Zimbi, I said. The big storm is coming along fast, and will soon eat up that baby of yours, and I pointed to the west. Baby, sometimes go to Giant's, white man, said Indaba Zimbi, beckoning away vigorously. Look now, at my cloud-child. I looked. The eastern storm was spreading itself from earth to sky, and in shape resembled an enormous man. There was its head, its shoulders, and its legs. Yes, it was like a huge giant travelling across the heavens. The light of the setting sun escaping from beneath the lower edge of the western storm shot across the intervening space in a sheet of splendour, and, lighting upon the advancing figure of cloud, wrapped its middle in hues of glory too wonderful to be described, but beneath and above this glowing belt his feet and head were black as jet. Presently, as I watched, an awful flash of light shot from the head of the cloud circled it about as though with a crown of living fire and vanished. Ah, chuckled old Indaba Zimbi, my little boy is putting on his man's ring. And he tapped the gum ring on his own head, which natives assume when they reach a certain age and dignity. Now, white one, unless you are a bigger wizard than either of us, you are better clear off, for the firefight is about to begin. I thought this sounded wise. Good luck go with you, my black uncle, I said. I hope you don't feel the iniquities of a misspent life weighing on you at the last. You look after yourself and think of your own sins, young man, he answered, with a grim smile, and taking a pinch of snuff while at that very moment a flash of lightning I don't know from which storm struck the ground within thirty paces of me. That was enough for me. I took to my heels and as I went I heard old Indaba Zimbi's dry chuckle of amusement. I climbed the hill till I came to where the chief was sitting with his Indanas, or head men, and sat down near to him. I looked at the man's face and saw that he was intensely anxious for his son's safety, and by no means confident of the young man's powers to resist the magic of Indaba Zimbi. He was talking in a low voice to the Indana next to him. I affected to take no notice and to be concentrating my attention on the novel scene before me, but in those days I had very quick ears and caught the drift of conversation. Arkan, the chief, was saying, if the magic of Indaba Zimbi prevails against my son, I will endure him no more. Of this I am sure that when he has slain my son, he will slay me, me also, and make himself chief in my place. I fear Indaba Zimbi. Oi, black one, answered the Indana. Wizards die as dogs die, and once dead, dogs bark no more. And once dead, said the chief, wizards work no more spells. And he bent and whispered in the Indana's ear, looking at the asagai in his hand as he whispered, Good my father, good, said the Indana presently. It shall be done tonight, if the lightning does not do it first. A bad lookout for old Indaba Zimbi, I said to myself, they mean to kill him. Then I thought no more of the matter for a while. The scene before me was too tremendous. The two storms were rapidly rushing together. Between them was a gulf of blue sky, and from time to time flashes of blinding light passed across this gulf, leaping from cloud to cloud. I remember that they reminded me of the story of the heathen god Jove and his thunderbolts. The storm that was shaped like a giant and ringed with the glory of the sinking sun made an excellent Jove, and I am sure that the bolts which leapt from it could not have been surpassed even in mythological times. Oddly enough, as yet, the flashes were not followed by thunder. A deadly stillness lay upon the place. The cattle stood silently on the hillside. Even the natives were awed to silence. Dark shadows crept along the bosom of the hills. The river to the right and left was hidden in reeds of clouds. But before us and beyond the combatants it shone like a line of silver beneath a narrowing space of open sky. Now the western tempest was scrawled all over with lines of intolerable light, while the inky head of the cloud giant to the east was continually suffused with a white and deadly glow that came and went into pulses, as though a blood of flame was being pumped into it from the heart of the storm. The silence deepened and deepened. The shadows grew blacker and blacker. Then suddenly all nature began to moan beneath the breath of an icy wind. On sped the wind. The smooth surface of the river was ruffled by it into little waves. The tall grass bowed low before it, and in its wake came the hissing sound of a furious rain. Ah! the storms had met. From each there burst an awful blaze of dazzling flame, and now the hail on which we sat rocked at the noise of the following thunder. The light went out of the sky. Darkness fell suddenly on the land, but not for long. Presently the whole landscape grew vivid in the flashes. It appeared and disappeared. Now everything was visible for miles. Now even the men at my side vanished in the blackness. The thunder rolled and cracked and peeled like the trump of doom. Whirlwinds tore round, lifting dust and even stones high into the air, and in a low continuous undertone rose the hiss of the rushing rain. I put my hand before my eyes to shield them from the terrible glare, and looked beneath it towards the lists of the Iron Stone. As flash followed flash from time to time I caught sight of the two wizards. They were slowly advancing towards one another, each pointing at his foe with the asagai in his hand. I could see their every movement, and it seemed to me that the chain lightning was striking the Iron Stone all round them. Suddenly the thunder and lightning ceased for a minute. Everything grew black, and, except for the rain, silent. It is over one way or the other, chief, I called out into the darkness. Wait, white man, wait, answered the chief in a voice thick with anxiety and fear. Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the heavens were lit up again till they literally seemed to flame. There were the men, not ten paces apart. A great flash fell between them. I saw them stagger beneath the shock. Indaba Zimbi recovered himself first, at any rate, when the next flash came he was standing bolt upright, pointing with his asagai towards his enemy. The chief's son was still on his legs, but he was staggering like a drunken man, and the asagai had fallen from his hand. Darkness. Then again a flash, more fearful, if possible, than any that had gone before. To me it seemed to come from the east, right over the head of Indaba Zimbi. In that instant I saw the chief's son wrapped as it were in the heart of it. Then the thunder peeled, the rain burst over us like a torrent, and I saw no more. The worst of the storm was done, but for a while the darkness was so dense that we could not move, nor indeed was I inclined to leave the safety of the hillside where the lightning was never known to strike, and venture down to the iron stone. Eventually there came flashes, but such as we would we could see no trace of either of the wizards. For my part I believed that they were both dead. Now the clouds slowly rolled away down the course of the river, and with them went the rain, and now the star shone in their wake. Let us go and see, said the old chief, rising and shaking the water from his hair. The firefight is ended. Let us go and see who has conquered. I rose and followed him, dripping as though I had swum a hundred yards with my clothes on, and after me came all the people of the crawl. We reached the spot, even in that light I could see where the iron stone had been split and fused by the thunderbolts. While I was staring about me I suddenly heard the chief, who was on my right, give a low moan, and saw the people clust around him. I went up and looked. There, on the ground, lay the body of his son. It was a dreadful sight. The hair was burnt off his head. The copper rings upon his arms refused. The asagai handle which lay near was literally shivered into threads, and when I took hold of his arm it seemed to me that every bone of it was broken. The men with the chief stood gazing silently while the women wailed. Great is the magic of Endaba Zimbi, said a man at length. The chief turned and struck him a heavy blow with the carry in his hand. Great or not the dog he shall die, he cried, and so shall thou if thou singest his praises so loudly. I said nothing, but thinking it probable that Endaba Zimbi had shared the fate of his enemy I went to look. But I could see nothing of him, and at length, being thoroughly chilled with the wet, started back to my wagon to change my clothes. On reaching it I was rather surprised to see a strange kafir seated on the driving-box wrapped up in a blanket. Hello, come out of that, I said. The figure on the box slowly unrolled the blanket, and with great deliberation took a pinch of snuff. It was a good fight when man was it not, said Endaba Zimbi in his high cracked voice. But he never had a chance against me, poor boy. He knew nothing about it. See, white man, what becomes of presumption in a young. It is sad, very sad. But I made the flashes fly, didn't I? You old humbug, I said, unless you are careful you will soon learn what comes of presumption in the old, for your chief is after you with an asaga, and it will take all your magic to dodge that. Now you don't say so, said Endaba Zimbi, clambering off the wagon with rapidity, and all because of this rigid upstart. There's gratitude for you, white man. I expose him, and they want to kill me. Well, thank you for the hint. We shall meet again, river long. And he was gone like a shot, and not too soon, for just then some of the chief's men came up to the wagon. On the following morning I started homewards, the first face I saw on arriving at the station was that of Endaba Zimbi. How do you do, Makumazahan? he said, holding his head on one side and nodding his white lock. I hear you are Christians here, and I want to try a new religion. Mine must be a bad one, seeing that my people wanted to kill me for exposing an impostor. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Alan's Wife This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Alan's Wife by H. Ryder Haggard. Chapter 3 Northwards I make no apology to myself, or to anybody who may happen to read this narrative in future, for having set out the manner of my meeting with Endaba Zimbi, first because it was curious, and secondly because he takes some hand in the subsequent events. If that old man was a humbug, he was a very clever one. What amount of truth there was in his pretensions to supernatural powers is not for me to determine, though I may have my own opinion on the subject. But there was no mistake as to the extraordinary influence he exercised over his fellow natives. Also he quite got round my poor father. At first the old gentleman declined to have him at the station, for he had a great horror of these kathio wizards or witchfinders, that Endaba Zimbi persuaded him that he was anxious to investigate the truths of Christianity and challenged him to a discussion. The argument lasted two years. To the time of my father's death, indeed. At the conclusion of each stage, Endaba Zimbi would remark in the words of the Roman governor, Almost praying white man thou persuadest me to become a Christian. But he never quite became one. Indeed I do not think he ever meant to. It was to him that my father addressed his letters to a native doubter. This work which unfortunately remains in manuscript, is full of wise souls and learned instances. It ought to be published together with a precy of the doubters answers, which were verbal. So the talk went on. If my father had lived, I believe it would be going on now, for both of the disputants were quite inexhaustible. Meanwhile Endaba Zimbi was allowed to live on the station, on condition that he practised no witchcraft, which my father firmly believed to be a wile of the devil. He said that he would not. But for all that there was never an ox lost, or a sudden death. But he was consulted by those interested. When he had been with us a year, a deputation came to him from the tribe he had left, asking him to return. Things had not gone well with them since he went away, they said, and now the chief his enemy was dead. Old Endaba Zimbi listened to them till they had done, and as he listened, raked sand into a little heap with his toes. Then he spoke, pointing to the little heap. There is your tribe to-day, he said. Then he lifted his heel and stamped the heap flat. There is your tribe before three moons are gone, nothing is left of it. You'll drove me away? I will have no more to do with you. But when you are being gild, think of my words. The messengers went. Three months afterwards I heard that the whole community had been wiped out by an impie of raiding pondos. When I was at length ready to start upon my expedition, I went to Old Endaba Zimbi to say good-bye to him, and was rather surprised to find him engaged in rolling up medicine, asagais, and other sundries in his blankets. Good-bye, Endaba Zimbi, I said. I'm going to trek north. He asked Makumazahan, he answered, with his head on one side, and so am I. I want to see that country. We will go together. Will we? I said. Wait till you're asked, you old humbug. You had better ask me than Makumazahan, for if you don't you will never come back alive. Now that the old chief, my father, is gone to where the storms come from, and he nodded to the sky, I feel myself getting into bad habits again. So last night I just threw up the bones and worked out about your journey, and I can tell you this, that if you don't take me you will die. And what is more, you will lose one who is dearer to you than life in a strange fashion. So just because you gave me that hint a couple of years ago, I made up my mind to come with you. Don't talk stuff to me, I said. Ah, very well Makumazahan, very well. But what happened to my own people six months ago, and what did I tell the messengers would happen? They drove me away and they are gone. If you drive me away you will soon be gone too, and he nodded his white locket to me and smiled. Now I was not more superstitious than other people, but somehow old and dull as Imbi impressed me. Also I knew his extraordinary influence over every class of native, and bethought me that he might be useful in that way. All right, I said. I appoint you witch finder to the expedition without pay. First serve, then ask for wages, he answered. I am glad to see that you have another imagination not to be altogether a fool like most white men in Makumazahan. Yes, yes, it is a want of imagination that makes people fools. They won't believe what they can't understand. You can't understand my prophecies any more than a fool that the crowd could understand that I was his master with a lightning. Well it is time to trek, but if I were you Makumazahan, I should take one wagon, not two. Why? I said. Because you will lose your wagons and it is better to lose one than two. Oh, nonsense I said. All right Makumazahan, live and learn. And without another word he walked to the foremost wagon, put his bundle into it, and climbed on to the front seat. So having bid an affectionate adieu to my white friends, including the old Scotchman who got drunk in honour of the event, and quoted burns till the tears ran down his face, at length I started and travelled slowly northwards. For the first three weeks nothing very particular befell me. Such cafes as we came into contact with were friendly, and game literally swarmed. Nobody living in those parts of South Africa nowadays can have the remotest idea of what the belt was like even thirty years ago. Often and often I have crept shivering onto my wagon-box, just as the sun rose and looked out. At first one would see nothing but a vast field of white mist suffused towards the east by a tremulous golden glow through which the tops of stony copies stood up like gigantic beacons. From the dense mist would come strange sounds, snorts, gruntings, bellows, and the thunder of countless hooves. Presently this great curtain would grow thinner than it would melt, as the smoke from a pipe melts into the air, and from miles on miles the wide rolling country interspersed with bush opened to the view. But it was not tenantless as it is now, for as far as the eye could reach it would be literally black with game. Here to the right might be a herd of wildebeests that could not number less than two thousand. Some were grazing, some gambled, whisking their white tails into the air, while all round the old bulls stood upon hillocks sniffing suspiciously at the breeze. There in front, a hundred yards away, though to the unpracticed eye they looked much closer, because of the dazzling clearness of the atmosphere, was a great herd of springbok trekking along in single file. Ah, they have come back to the wagon-track and do not like the look of it. What will they do? Go back? Not a bit of it. It is nearly thirty feet wide, but that is nothing to a springbok. See, the first of them bounds into the air like a ball, how beautifully the sunshine gleams upon his golden hide. He has cleared it, and the others come after him in numberless succession, all except the fawns who cannot jump so far, and have to scamper over the doubtful path with a terrified bar. What is that yonder moving above the tops of the mimosa, in the little dell at the foot of the copy? Giraffes by George, three of them. There will be marrow bones for supper tonight. Hark! the ground shakes behind us, and over the brow of the rise of Russia, vast herd of blessbok. On they come at full gallop, their long heads held low, they look like so many bearded goats. I thought so, behind them is a pack of wild dogs, their fur draggled, their tongues lolling. They are in full cry, the giraffes hear them and are away, rolling round the copy like a ship in a heavy sea. No marrow bones, after all. See, the foremost dogs are close on a buck. He has galloped far and is outworn. One springs at his flank and misses him. The buck gives a kind of groan, looks wildly round, and sees the wagon. He seems to hesitate a moment, then, in his despair, rushes up to it, and falls exhausted among the oxen. The dogs pull up some thirty paces away, panting and snarling. Now, boy, the gun—no, not the rifle, the shotgun loaded with loopers. Bang! bang! There, my friends, two of you will never hunt buck again. No, don't touch the buck, for he has come to us for shelter, and he shall have it. Ah, how beautiful is nature before man comes to spoil it. Such a sight as this I have seen many a hundred times, and I hope to see it again before I die. The first real adventure that befell me on this particular journey was with elephants, which I will relate because of its curious termination. Just before we crossed the Orange River we came to a stretch of forest land some twenty miles broad. The night we entered this forest we camped in a lovely open glade. A few yards ahead, Tambukigras was growing to the height of a man, or rather it had been, now with the exception of a few stalks here and there it was crushed quite flat. It was already dusk when we camped, but after the moon got up I walked from the fire to see how this had happened. One glance was enough for me. A great herd of elephants had evidently passed over the tall grass not many hours before. The sight of their spore rejoiced me exceedingly, for though I had seen wild elephants, at that time I had never shot one. Moreover, the sight of elephants spore to the African hunter is what colour in the pan is to the prospector of gold. It is by the ivory that he lives, and to shoot it or trade it is his chief aim in life. My resolution was soon taken. I would camp the wagons for a while in the forest and start on horseback after the elephants. I communicated my decision to end up a Zimbi and the other kaphirs. The latter were not loath for your kaphir loves hunting, which means plenty of meat and congenial occupation, that end up a Zimbi would express no opinion. And I saw him retire to a little fire that he had lit for himself, and go through some mysterious performances with bones and clay mixed with ashes, which were watched with the greatest interest by the other kaphirs. At length he rose, and, coming forward, informed me that it was all right, and that I did well to go and hunt the elephants, as I should get plenty of ivory. But he advised me to go on foot. I said I should do nothing of the sort but meant to ride. I am wiser now. This was the first and last time that I ever attempted to hunt elephants on horseback. Accordingly we started at dawn. I, Endaba Zimbi, and three men. The rest I left with the wagons. I was on horseback, and so was my driver, a good rider, and a skilful shot for a kaphir. But Endaba Zimbi and the others walked. From dawn till midday we followed the trail of the herd, which was as plain as a high road. Then we off-saddle to let the horses rest and feed, and about three o'clock started on again. Another hour or so passed, and still there was no sign of elephants. Evidently the herd had travelled fast and far, and I began to think that we should have to give it up, when suddenly I caught sight of a brown mass moving through the thorn trees on the side of a slope about a quarter of a mile away. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth. Where is the hunter who has not felt like this at the sight of his first elephant? I called a halt, and then the wind being right we set to work to stalk the bull. Very quietly I rode down the hither side of the slope till we came to the bottom, which was densely covered with bush. Here I saw the elephants had been feeding, for broken branches and upturned trees lay all about. I did not take much notice, however, for all my thoughts were fixed upon the bore I was stalking, when suddenly my horse gave a violent start that nearly threw me from the saddle, and there came a mighty rush and upheaval of something in front of me. I looked. There was a hinder part of a secondable elephant not four yards off. I could just catch sight of its outstretched ears projecting on either side. I had disturbed its sleething, and it was running away. Obviously the best thing to do would have been to let it run, but I was young in those days and foolish, and in the excitement of the moment I lifted my roar or elephant gun and fired it the great brute over my horse's head. The recoil of the heavy gun nearly knocked me off the horse. I recovered myself, however, and as I did so saw the bull lurch forward, for the impact of a three-inch bullet in the flank will quicken the movement, even, of an elephant. By this time I had realised the folly of the shot, and devoutly hoped that the bull would take no further notice of it, but he took a different view of the matter. Pulling himself up in a series of plunges, he spun round and came for me with outstretched ears and uplifted trunk, screaming terribly. I was quite defenceless, for my gun was empty, and my first thought was of escape. I dug my heels into the sides of my horse, but he would not move an inch. The poor animal was paralysed with terror, and he simply stood still, his forelegs outstretched and quivering all over like a leaf. On rushed the elephant, awful to see. I made one more vain effort to stir the horse. Now the trunk of the great bull swung a loft above my head. A thought flashed through my brain, quick as light I rolled from the saddle. By the side of the horse lay a fallen tree as thick through as a man's body. The tree was lifted a little off the ground by the broken bowels which took its weight, and with a single movement so active is one in such necessities I flung myself beneath it. As I did so I heard the trunk of the elephant descend with a mighty thud on the back of my poor horse. And the next instant I was almost in darkness, for the horse whose back was broken fell over across the tree under which I lay ensconced. But he did not stop there long. Then ten seconds more the bull had wound his trunk about by dead nag's neck, and with a mighty effort hurled him clear of the tree. I wriggled backwards as far as I could towards the roots of the tree, for I knew what he was after. Presently I saw the red tip of the bull's trunk stretching itself towards me. If he could manage to hook it round any part of me I was lost. But in the position I occupied that was just what he could not do, although he knelt down to facilitate his operations. On came the snapping tip like a great open-mouthed snake. It closed upon my hat which vanished. Again it was thrust down and a scream of rage was bellowed through it within four inches of my head. Now it seemed to elongate itself, oh heavens! Now it had me by the hair which luckily for myself was not very long. Then it was my turn to scream, for next instant half a square inch of hair was dragged for my scalp by the roots. I was being plucked alive as I had seen cruel kaffir kitchen boys pluck a foul. The elephant, however, disappointed with these moderate results, changed his tactics. He wound his trunk round the fallen tree and lifted. The tree stirred, but fortunately the broken branches embedded in the spongy soil and some roots which still held prevented it from being turned over. Though he lifted it so much that had it occurred to him he could now easily have drawn me out with his trunk. Again he hoisted with all his mighty strength and I saw that the tree was coming and roared aloud for help. Some shots were fired close by in answer, but if they hit the bull their only effect was to stir his energies to more active life. In another few seconds my shelter would be torn away and I should be done for. A cold perspiration burst out over me as I realized that I was lost. Then of a sudden I remembered that I had a pistol in my belt which I often used for dispatching wounded game. It was loaded and capped. By this time the tree was lifted so much that I could easily get my hand down to my middle and draw the pistol from its case. I drew and cocked it. Now the tree was coming over and there within three feet of my head was the great brown trunk of the elephant. I placed the muzzle of the pistol within an inch of it and fired. The result was instantaneous. Down sunk the tree again giving one of my legs a considerable squeeze and next instant I heard a crashing sound. The elephant had bolted. By this time what between fright and struggling I was pretty well tired. I cannot remember how I got from under the fallen tree or indeed anything until I found myself sitting on the ground drinking some peach brandy from a flask and old Indaba Zimbi opposite to me nodding his white lock sagely. While he fired off moral reflections on the narrowness of my escape and my unwisdom in not having taken his advice to go on foot. That reminded me of my horse. I got up and went to look at it. It was quite dead. The blow of the elephant's trunk had fallen on the saddle breaking the framework and rendering it useless. I reflected that in another two seconds it would have fallen on me. Then I called to Indaba Zimbi and asked which way the elephants had gone. There! he said, pointing down the gully. And we had better go after them, we have had the bad luck now for the good. There was philosophy in this though to tell the truth. I did not feel particularly sharp set on elephants at the moment. I seem to have had enough of them. However it would never do to show the white feather before the boys, so I assented with much outward readiness and we started, I on the second horse and the others on foot. When we had travelled for the best part of an hour down the valley, all of a sudden we came upon the whole herd which numbered a little more than 80. Just in front of them the bush was so thick that they seemed to hesitate about entering it, and the sides of the valley were so rocky and steep at this point that they could not climb them. They saw us at the same moment as we saw them, and inwardly I was filled with fears lest they should take it into their heads to charge back up the gully. But they did not. Trumpeting aloud they rushed at the thick bush which went down before them like corn before a sickle. I do not think that in all my experiences I have ever heard anything to equal the sound they made as they crashed through and over the shrubs and trees, before them was a dense forest belt from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet in width. As they rushed on it fell so that behind them was nothing but a level roadway strewed with fallen trunks, crushed branches, and here and there a tree, too strong even for them, left stranded amid the wreck. On they went, and, notwithstanding the nature of the ground over which they had to travel, they kept their distance ahead of us. This sort of thing continued for a mile or more, and then I saw that in front of the elephants the valley opened into a space covered with reeds and grass. It might have been five or six acres in extent, beyond which the valley ran on again. The herd reached the edge of this expanse and for a moment pulled up, hesitating. Evidently they mistrusted it. My men yelled aloud as only cafe as can, and that settled them. Headed by the wounded bull, whose martial ardour like my own was somewhat cooled, they spread out and dashed into the treacherous swamp for such it was, though just then there was no water to be seen. For a few yards all went well with them, though they clearly found it heavy going. Then suddenly the great bull sank up to his belly in the stiff, peaty soil and remained fixed. The others, mad with fear, took no heed of his struggles and trumpetings, but plunged on to meet the same fate. In five minutes the whole herd of them were hopelessly bogged, and the more they struggled to escape the deeper they sunk. There was one exception indeed. A cow managed to win back to firm shore, and lifting her trunk prepared to charge us as we came up. But at that moment she heard the scream of her calf and rushed back to its assistance, only to be bogged with the others. Such a scene I never saw before or since. The swamp was spotted all over with the large forms of the elephants, and the air rang with their screams of rage and terror as they waved their trunks wildly to and fro. And now and then a monster would make a great effort and drag his mass from its peaty bed only to stick fast again at the next step. It was a most pityable sight, though one that gladdened the hearts of my men. Even the best natives have little compassion for the suffering of animals. Well, the rest was easy. The marsh that would not bear the elephants carried our weight well enough, before midnight all were dead, for we shot them by moonlight. I would gladly have spared the young ones and some of the cows, but to do so would only have meant leaving them to perish of hunger. It was kinder to kill them at once. The wounded bull I slew with my own hand, and I cannot say that I felt much compunction in so doing. He knew me again and made a desperate effort to get at me, but I am glad to say that the peat held him fast. The pan presented a curious sight when the sun rose next morning, owing to the support given by the soil few of the dead elephants had fallen, there they stood as though they were asleep. I sent back for the wagons, and when they arrived on the morrow formed a camp about a mile away from the pan. Then began the work of cutting out the elephants' tusks. It took over a week, and for obvious reasons was a disgusting task. Indeed, had it not been for the help of some wandering bushmen who took their pay in elephant meat, I do not think we could ever have managed it. At last it was done. The ivory was far too cumbersome for us to carry, so we buried it, having first got rid of our bushmen allies. My boys wanted me to go back to the cape with it and sell it, but I was too much bent on my journey to do this. The tusks lay buried for five years, then I came and dug them up. They were but little harmed. Ultimately I sold the ivory for something over twelve hundred pounds. Not bad pay for one day's shooting. This was how I began my career as an elephant hunter. I have shot many hundreds of them since, but have never again attempted to do so on horseback. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Alan's Wife After burying the elephant tusks, and having taken careful notes of the bearings and peculiarities of the country so that I might be able to find the spot again, we proceeded on our journey. For a month or more I trekked along the line which now divides the orange-free state, from Gricoland West to the Transvaal from Beshuwana Land. The only difficulties met with were such as are still common to African travellers, occasional want of water, and troubles about crossing sluits and rivers. I remember that I outspanned on the spot where Kimberley now stands, and had to press on again in a hurry because there was no water. I little dreamed then that I should live to see Kimberley a great city producing millions of pounds worth of diamonds annually, and Olden Dubber Zimby's magic cannot have been worth so much after all, or he would have told me. I found the country almost entirely depopulated. Not very long before Mazalatsky, the lion, Shaka's general, had swept across in his progress towards what is now Matabeelyland. His footsteps were evident enough. Time upon time I trekked up to what had evidently been sights of kafir-crawls. Now the crawls were ashes and piles of tumbled stones, and strewn about among the rank-grass were the bones of hundreds of men, women, and children, all of whom had kissed the Zulu-asegai. I remember that in one of these desolate places I found the skull of a child in which a ground-lark had built its nest. It was the twittering of the young birds inside that first called my attention to it. Shortly after this we met with our second great adventure, a much more serious and tragic one than the first. We were trekking parallel with the Kulong River when a herd of blessbok crossed the track. I fired at one of them and hit it behind. It galloped about a hundred yards with the rest of the herd, then lay down. As we were in want of meat, not having met with any game for a few days past, I jumped onto my horse and, telling in Dubber Zimby that I would overtake the wagons or meet them on the further side of a rise about an hour's trek away, I started after the wounded buck. As soon as I came within a hundred yards of it, however, it jumped up and ran away as fast as though it were untouched, only to lie down again at a distance. I followed, thinking that strength would soon fail it. This happened three times. On the third occasion it vanished behind a ridge, and though by now I was out of both temper and patience, I thought I might as well ride to the crest and see if I could get a shot at it on the further side. I reached the ridge which was strewn with stones, looked over it, and saw a zulu impi. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, there was no doubt of it. They were halted about a thousand yards away by the water. Some were lying down, some were cooking at fires, others were stalking about with spears and shields in their hands. There might have been two thousand or more of them in all. While I was wondering, and that with no little uneasiness, what on earth they could have been doing there? Suddenly I heard a wild cry to the right and left of me. I glanced first one way, then the other. From either side a great zulu was bearing down on me, their broad-stabbing asagaisa loft and black shields in their left hands. The man to the right was about fifteen yards away. He to the left was not more than ten. On they came, their fierce eyes almost starting out of their heads, and I felt, with a cold thrill of fear, that in another three seconds those broad bang-wands might be buried in my vitals. On such occasions we act, I suppose, more from instinct than from anything else. There is no time for thought. At any rate, I dropped the reins, and raising my gun fired point blank at the left-hand man. The bullet struck him the middle of his shield, pierced it, and passed through him, and over he rolled upon the belt. I swung round in the saddle, most happily my horse was accustomed to standing still when I fired from his back. Also he was so surprised that he did not know which way to shy. The other savage was almost on me. His outstretched shield reached the muzzle of my gun as I pulled the trigger of the left barrel. It exploded. The warrior sprung high into the air and fell against my horse dead, his spear passing just in front of my face. Without waiting to reload, or even to look if the main body of the Zulus had seen the death of their two scouts, I turned my horse and drove my heels into his sides. As soon as I was down the slope of the rise, I pulled a little to the right in order to intercept the wagons before the Zulus saw them. I had not gone three hundred yards in this new direction when to my utter astonishment. I struck a trail marked with wagon-wheels and the hooves of oxen. Of wagons there must have been at least eight and several hundred cattle. Moreover they had passed within twelve hours. I could tell that by the spore. Then I understood. The impie was following the track of the wagons, which in all probability belonged to a party of immigrant wars. The spore of the wagons ran in the direction I wished to go, so I followed it. About a mile further on I came to the crest of a rise and there, about five furlongs away, I saw the wagons drawn up in a rough lager upon the banks of the river. There, too, were my own wagons trekking down the slope towards them. In another five minutes I was there. The boars, for boars they were, were standing about outside the little lager watching the approach of my two wagons. I called to them and they turned and saw me. The very first man my eyes fell on was a boar named Hans Boether, whom I had known well years ago in the Cape. He was not a bad specimen of his class, but a very restless person, with a great objection to authority or, as he expressed it, a love of freedom. He had joined a party of the immigrant boars some years before, but, as I learned presently, had quarrelled with its leader, and was now trekking away into the wilderness to found the little colony of his own. Poor fellow, it was his last trek. How do you do mine here, Boether? I said to him in Dutch. The man looked at me, looked again, then startled out of his Dutch delidity, cried to his wife, who was seated on the box of the wagon. Come here, frau, come! Here is Alan Quatermain, the Englishman, the son of the predicate. How goes it here, Quatermain, and what is the news done in the Cape Yonder? I don't know what the news is in the Cape Hans, I answered solemnly, but the news here is that there is a zulu impi upon your spore and within two miles of the wagons, that I know, for I have just shot two of their sentries, and I showed him my empty gun. For a moment there was a silence of astonishment, and I saw the bronzed faces of the men turn pale beneath their tan, while one or two of the women gave a little scream, and the children crept to their sides. Almighty! cried Hans, that must be the um Tatwa regiment at the Dingan sent against the basutus, but who would not come at them because of the marshes, and so were afraid to return to Zululand, and struck north through John Mosilikatsi. Lager up, Kals, lager up for your lies, and one of you jump on a horse and drive into cattle. At this moment my own wagons came up, and Daba Zimbi was sitting on the box of the first wrapped in the blanket. I called him and told him the news. Il tidings makumazahan, he said, there will be dead boars about tomorrow morning, but they will not attack till dawn, then they will wipe out the lager, so. And he passed his hand before his mouth. Stop that croaking, you white-headed crow, I said, though I knew his words were true. What chance had a lager of ten wagons all told against at least two thousand of the bravest savages in the world? Mokumazahan, will you take my advice this time? And Daba Zimbi said presently. What is it? I asked. This. Leave your wagons here, jump on that horse, and let us to run for it as hard as we can go. The Zulus won't follow us, they will be looking after the boars. I won't leave the other white men, I said. It would be an act of a coward, if I die, I die. Very well, Mokumazahan, and stay and be killed, he answered, taking a pinch of snuff. Come, let us see about the wagons. And we walked towards the lager. Here, everything was in confusion. However, I got hold of Hans Botha and put it to him, if it would not be best to desert the wagons and make a run for it. How can we do it? he answered. Two of the women are too fat to go a mile, and one is sick in child-bed, and they have only six horses among us. Besides, if we did, we should starve in the desert. Know here, Alan, we must fight it out with the savages, and God help us. God help us indeed. Think of the children, Hans. I can't bear to think, he answered, in a broken voice, looking at his own little girl, a sweet, curly-haired, blue-eyed child of six named Tota, whom I had often nursed as a baby. Oh, here, Alan, your father, the predicant, always warned me against trekking north, and I never would listen to him because I thought him a cursed Englishman. Now I see my folly here, Alan. If you can, try to save my child from those black devils. If you live longer than I do, or if you can't save her, kill her. And he clasped my hand. It hasn't come to that yet, Hans, I said. Then we set to work on the lager. The wagons, of which including my two there were ten, were drawn into the form of a square, and the disilboom of each securely lashed with reams to the underworks of that in front of it. The wheels were also locked, and the space between the ground and the bed-planks of the wagons was stuffed with branches of the weight-a-bit thorn, that fortunately grew near in considerable quantities. In this way a barrier was formed of no mean strength, as against a foe unprovided with firearms, places being left for the men to fire from. In a little over an hour everything was done that could be done, and a discussion arose as to the disposal of the cattle, which had been driven up close to the camp. Some of the boars were anxious to get them into the lager, small as it was, or at least as many of them as it could hold. I argued strongly against this, pointing out that the brutes would probably be seized with panic as soon as the firing began, and trample the defenders of the lager underfoot. As an alternative plan I suggested that some of the native servants should drive the herd along the valley of the river, till they reached a friendly tribe or some other place of safety. Of course if the Zulus saw them they would be taken, but the nature of the ground was favourable, and it was possible that they might escape if they started at once. The proposition was promptly agreed to, and what is more it was settled that one Dutchman and such of the women and children as could travel should go with them. In half an hour's time twelve of them started with the natives, the boar in charge and the cattle. Three of my own men went with the latter, the three others and in Darba Zimbies stopped with me in the lager. The parting was a heartbreaking scene, upon which I do not care to dwell. The women wept, the men groaned, and the children looked on with scared white faces. At length they were gone, and I for one was thankful of it. They remained in the lager seventeen white men, four natives, the two boar frows who were too stout to travel, the woman in child-bed and her baby, and hands both as little daughter Tota, whom he could not make up his mind to part with. Happily her mother was already dead, and here I may state that ten of the women and children, together with about half of the cattle, escaped. The Zula impi never saw them, and on the third day of travel they came to the fortified place of the Greek chief, who sheltered them on receiving half the cattle in payment. Thence by slow degrees they journeyed down to the Cape Colony, reaching a civilized region within a little more than a year from the date of the attack on the lager. The afternoon was now drawing towards evening, but still there were no signs of the impi. A wild hope struck us that they might have gone on about their business. Ever since in Darba Zimbie had heard that the regiment was supposed to belong to the Untetra tribe, he had, I noticed, been plunged in deep thought. Presently he came to me and volunteered to go out and spy upon their movements. At first Hans Boefer was against this idea, saying he was a verdammt farzel, an accursed black creature, and would betray us. I pointed out that there was nothing to betray. The Zulus must know where the wagons were, but it was important for us to gain information of their movements. So it was agreed that in Darba Zimbie should go. I told him this. He nodded his white-lock and said, All right, Makumazahan, and started. I noticed with some surprise, however, that before he did so he went to the wagon and fetched his mootie or medicine, which together with his other magical apparatus he always carried in the skin-bag. I asked him why he did this. He answered that it was to make himself invulnerable against the spears of the Zulus. I did not in the least believe his explanation, for in my heart I was sure that he meant to take the opportunity to make a bolt of it leaving me to my fate. I did not, however, interfere to prevent this, for I had an affection for the old fellow and sincerely hoped that he might escape the doom which overshadowed us. So in Darba Zimbie sauntered off, and as I looked at his retreating form I thought I should never see it again. But I was mistaken and little knew that he was risking his life, not for the boars whom he hated one and all, but for me whom in his queer way he loved. When he had gone we completed our preparations for defence, strengthening the wagons and the thorns beneath the earthen stones. Then at sunset we ate and drank as heartily as we could under the circumstances, and when we had done, Hans Botha, as head of the party, offered a prayer to God for our preservation. It was a touching sight to see the burly Dutchman, his hat off, his broad face lit up by the last rays of the setting sun, praying aloud in homely simple language to him who alone could save us from the spears of a cruel foe. I remember that the last sentence of his prayer was, Almighty, if we must be killed, save the women and children, and my little gold-tota from the accursed Zulus, and do not let us be tortured. I echoed the request very earnestly in my own heart, that I know, for in common with the others I was dreadfully afraid, and it must be admitted not without reason. Then the darkness came on, and we took up our appointed places, each with a rifle in his hand, and peered out into the gloom in silence. Occasionally one of the boars would light his pipe with a brand from the smoldering fire, and the glow of it would shine for a few moments on his pale, anxious face. Behind me one of the stout frows lay upon the ground. Even the terror of our position could not keep her heavy eyes from their accustomed sleep, and she snored loudly. On the further side of her, just by the fire, lay little tota, wrapped in a caross. She was asleep also, her thumb in her mouth, and from time to time her father would come to look at her. So the hours wore on while we waited for the Zulus, but from my intimate knowledge of the habits of natives I had little fear that they would attack us at night, though had they done so they could have compassed our destruction with but small loss to themselves. It is not the habit of this people, they like to fight in the light of day, at dawn for preference. About eleven o'clock, just as I was nodding a little at my post, I heard a low whistle outside the lager. Instantly I was wide awake, and all along the line I heard the clicking of locks as the boars cocked their guns. No kumas ahan, said a voice, the voice of Indava Zimbi. Are you there? Yes, I answered. Then hold a light so that I can see how to climb into the lager, he said. Yah, yah, hold a light, put in one of the boars. I don't trust that black schlepsle of yours, Herr Kotomein. He may have some office countrymen with him. Accordingly a lantern was produced and held towards the voice. There was Indava Zimbi alone. We let him into the lager and asked him the news. This is the news, white man, he said. I waited till dark, and creeping up to the place where the Zulu's aren't camped, hid myself behind a stone and listened. They are a great regiment of the Umtetwas as Baasbothu yonder thought. They stuck the spore of the wagons three days ago and followed it. Tonight they sleep upon their spears. Tomorrow at daybreak they will attack the lager and kill everybody. They are very bitter against the boars because of the battle at Blood River and the other fights, and that is why they followed the wagons instead of going straight north after Mozolacki. A kind of groan went up from the group of listening Dutchmen. I tell you what it is here, and I said, instead of waiting to be butchered here like a buck and a pitfall, let us go out now and fall upon the impi while it sleeps. This proposition excited some discussion, but in the end only one man could be found to vote for it. Boars as a rule lack that dash which makes great soldiers. Such forlorn hopes are not in their line, and rather than embark upon them they prefer to take their chance in a lager, however poor that chance may be. For my own part I firmly believe that, had my advice been taken, we should have routed the Zulu's. Seventeen desperate white men armed with guns would have produced no small effect upon a camp of sleeping savages, but it was not taken, so it is no use talking about it. After that we went back to our posts and slowly the weary night wore on towards the dawn. Only those who have watched under similar circumstances while they waited the advent of almost certain and cruel death can know the torturing suspense of those heavy hours. But they went somehow, and at last in the far east the sky began to lighten, while the cold breath of dawn stirred the tilts of the wagons and chilled me to the bone. The fat Dutch woman behind me woke with a yawn, then remembering all moaned aloud, while her teeth chattered with cold and fear. Handsboth are went to his wagon and got a bottle of peach brandy from which he poured into a tin panicon, giving us each a stiff dram, and making attempts to be cheerful as he did so. But his affected jocularity only seemed to depress his comrades the more. Certainly it depressed me. Now the light was growing, and we could see some way into the mist which still hung densely over the river, and now, there it was. From the other side of the hill a thousand yards or more from the lager came a faint humming sound. It grew and grew till it gathered to a chant, the awful war chant of the Zulus. Soon I could catch the words. They were simple enough. We shall slay, we shall slay. Is it not so, my brothers? Our spears shall blush blood red. Is it not so, my brothers? For we are the sucklings of jacka. Blood is our milk, my brothers. Awake, children of the umptetwa, awake. The vulture wheels, the jackal sniffs the air. Awake, children of the umptetwa. Cry aloud, ye ringed men. There is the foe, we shall slay them. Is it not so, my brothers? Suggy. Suggy. Suggy. Such is a rough translation of that hateful chant which to this very day I often seem to hear. It does not look particularly imposing on paper, but if, while he waited to be killed, the reader could have heard it as it rolled through the still air from the throats of nearly three thousand warriors singing all to time, he would have found it impressive enough. Now the shields began to appear over the brow of the rise. They came by companies, each company about ninety strong. All together there were thirty-one companies, I counted them. When all were over they formed themselves into a triple line, then trotted down the slope towards us. At a distance of a hundred and fifty yards or just out of the shot of such guns as we had in those days, they halted and began singing again. Yonder is the gull of the white man, a little gull, my brothers. We shall eat it up, we shall trample it flat, my brothers. But where are the white man's cattle? Where are his oxen, my brothers? This question seemed to puzzle them a good deal, for they sang the song again and again. At last a herald came forward, a great man with ivory rings about his arm, and putting his hands to his mouth called out to us asking where our cattle were. Hands both had climbed onto the top of the wagon and roared out that they might answer that question themselves. Then the herald called again, saying that he saw the cattle had been sent away. We shall go and find the cattle, he said. Then we shall come and kill you, because without cattle you must stop where you are. But if we wait to kill you before we get the cattle, they may have trekked too far for us to follow, and if you try to run away we shall easily catch you white men. This struck me as a very odd speech. For the Zulu's generally attack an enemy first and take his cattle afterwards. Still there was a certain amount of plausibility about it. While I was still wondering what it all might mean, the Zulu's began to run past us in companies towards the river. Suddenly a shout announced that they had found the spore of the cattle, and the whole impie of them started down it at a run till they vanished over a rise about a quarter of a mile away. We waited for half an hour or more, but nothing could receive them. Now I wonder if the devils have really gone, said Hans Botha to me. It is very strange. I will go and see, said Indaba Zimbi. If you'll come with me, Mukul Mazahan. We can creep to the double the ridge and look over. At first I hesitated, but curiosity overcame me. I was young in those days, and weary with suspense. Very well, I said we will go. So we started. I had my elephant gun and ammunition. Indaba Zimbi had his medicine bag and an asagai. We crept to the top of the rise like sportsmen stalking a buck. The slope on the other side was strewn with rocks, among which grew bushes and tall grass. They must have gone down the donger, I said to Indaba Zimbi. I can't see one of them. As I spoke there came a roar of men all round me. From every rock, from every tuft of grass rose a Zulu warrior. Before I could turn, before I could lift a gun, I was seized and thrown. Hold him! Hold the white spirit fast! cried a voice. Hold him, or he will slip away like a sneak. Don't hurt him, but hold him fast. Let Indaba Zimbi walk by his side. I turned on Indaba Zimbi. You black devil you have betrayed me! I cried. Wait and see, Mukuma Zahan! he answered coolly. Now the fight is going to begin. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Alan's Wife This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Alan's Wife by H. Ryder Haggard Chapter 5 The End of the Lager I gasped with wonder and rage. What did that scoundrel Indaba Zimbi mean? Why had I been drawn out of the Lager and seized? And why being seized was I not instantly killed? They called me the white spirit. Could it be that they were keeping me to make me into medicine? I had heard of such things being done by Zulu's and kindred tribes, and my blood ran cold at the thought. What an end! to be pounded up, made medicine of, and eaten. However, I had little time for further reflection. For now the whole impie was pouring back from the donger and river-banks, where it hidden while their ruse was being carried out, and once more formed up on the side of the slope. I was taken to the crest of the slope and placed in the centre of the reserve line in the especial charge of a huge Zulu, named Bomyani, the same man who had come forward as a herald. This brute seemed to regard me with an affectionate curiosity. Now and again he poked me in the ribs with the handle of his Asagai, as though to assure himself that I was solid, and several times he asked me to be so good as to prophesy how many Zulu's would be killed before the Amabuna, as they called the boars, were eaten up. At first I took no notice of him beyond scowling, but presently goaded into anger I prophesied that he would be dead in an hour. He only laughed aloud, all white spirit he said, is it so? Well, I've walked a long way from Zululand and shall be glad of a rest, and he got it shortly as will be seen. Now the Zulu's began to sing again, we have got the white spirit, my brother, my brother, iron tongue whispered of him, he smelt him out, my brother, now the Amabuna are ours, they are already dead, my brother. So that treacherous villain in Darba Zimby had betrayed me. Suddenly the chief of the impi, a grey haired man named Sususa, held up his Asagai, and instantly there was silence. Then he spoke to some Indonnas who stood near him. Instantly they ran to the right and left down the first line, saying a word to the captain of each company as they passed him. Presently they were at the respective ends of the line, and simultaneously held up their spears, as they did so with an Orhoror of Bulala Amabuna, Slay the Boars. The entire line, numbering nearly a thousand men, bounded forward like a buck startled from its form, and rushed down upon the little lager. It was a splendid sight to see them, their Asagais glittering in the sunlight as they rose and fell upon their black shields, their war plumes bending back upon the wind, and their fierce faces set intently on the foe, while the solid earth shook beneath the thunder of their rushing feet. I thought of my poor friends the Dutchmen and trembled. What chance had they against so many? Now the Zulus, running in the shape of a bow, so as to wrap the lager round on three sides, were within seventy yards, and now from every wagon broke tongues of fire. Overrolled a number of the Umtetwa, but the rest cared little. Forward they sped straight to the lager, striving to force away in, but the Boars plied them with volley after volley, and, packed as the Zulus were, the elephant guns loaded with slugs and small shot did frightful execution. Only one man even got onto a wagon, and as he did so, I saw a Boar woman strike him on the head with an axe. He fell down, and slowly, amid howls of derision from the two lines on the hillside, the Zulus drew back. Let us go, Father, shouted the soldiers on the slope, among whom I was, to their chief, who had come up. You have sent out the little girls to fight, and they are frightened. Let us show them the way. No, no, the chief Sususa answered, laughing, wait a minute, and the little girls will go to women, and women are good enough to fight against Boars. The attacking Zulus heard the mockery of their fellows, and rushed forward again with a roar. But the Boars and the lager had found time to load, and they met with a warm reception. Reserving their fire till the Zulus were packed like sheep in a crawl, they loosed into them with the Roars, and the Warriors fell in little heaps. But I saw that the blood of the Umtetwas was up. They did not mean to be beaten back this time, and the end was near. See, six men had leapt onto a wagon, slain the man behind it, and sprung into the lager. They were killed there, but others followed. And then I turned to my head. But I could not shut my ears to the cries of rage, and death, and the terrible ziggy, ziggy of the savages as they did their work. Only once I looked up and saw poor Handsbother standing on a wagon, smiting down men with the butt of his rifle. The Asagars shot up towards him like tongues of steel. And when I looked again, he was gone. I turned sick with fear and rage. But alas, what could I do? They were all dead now, and probably my own turn was coming. Only my death would not be so swift. The fight was ended, and the two lines on the slope broke their order and moved down to the lager. Presently we were there, and a dreadful sight it was. Many of the attacking Zulus were dead, quite fifty, I should say, and at least a hundred and fifty were wounded, some of them mortally. The chief Sususa gave an order, and the dead men were picked up and piled in a heap, while those who were slightly hurt walked off to find someone to tie up their wounds. But the more serious cases met with a different treatment. The chief, or one of his indunners, considered each case, and if it was in any way bad, the man was taken up and thrown into the river which ran near. None of them offered any objection. The one poor fellow swam to shore again. He did not stop there long, however, for they pushed him back and drowned him by force. The strangest case of all was that of the chief's own brother. He had been captain of the line, and his ankle was smashed by a bullet. Sususa came up to him, and having examined the wound, rated him soundly for failing in the first onslaught. The poor fellow made the excuse that it was not his fault, as the boars had hit him in the first rush. His brother admitted the truth of this, and talked to him amicably. Well, he said at length, offering him a pinch of snuff, you cannot walk again. No chief, said the wounded man, looking at his ankle. And to-morrow we must walk far, went on Sususa. Yes, chief. Say, then, will you sit here on the vell tour? And he nodded towards the river. The man dropped his head on his breast for a minute, as though in thought. Presently he lifted it, and looked Sususa straight in the face. My uncle pains me, my brother, he said. I think I will go back to Zululand, for there is the only girl I wish to see again, even if I creep about it like a snake. The Zululs believe that after death their spirits enter into the bodies of large green snakes which glide about the crawls. To kill these snakes is sacrilege. It is well, my brother, said the chief, who rests softly. And having shaken hands with him, he gave an order to one of the andunners, and turned away. The men came, and supporting the wounded man led him down to the banks of the stream. Here, at his request, they tied a heavy stone round his neck, and then threw him into a deep pool. I saw the whole sad scene, and the victim never even winced. It was impossible not to admire the extraordinary courage of the man, or to avoid being struck with a cold-blooded cruelty of his brother the chief. And yet the act was necessary from his point of view. The man must either die swiftly, or be left to perish of starvation, for no Zulu force will encumber itself with wounded men. Years of merciless warfare had so hardened these people that they looked on death as nothing, and were to do them justice as willing to meet it themselves as to inflict it on others. When this very impi had been sent out by the Zulu king Din Gan, it consisted of some nine thousand men. Now it numbered less than three. All the rest were dead. They, too, would probably soon be dead. What did it matter? They lived by war to die in blood. It was their natural end. Kill till you are gild. That is the motto of the Zulu soldier. It has the merit of simplicity. Meanwhile the warriors were looting the wagons, including my own, having first thrown all the dead boars into a heap. I looked at the heap. All of them were there, including the two stout frows, poor things. But I missed one body, that of Hans Boether's daughter, little Tota. A wild hope came into my heart that she might have escaped, but no, it was not possible. I could only pray that she was already at rest. Just then the great Zulu Boniani, who had left my side to indulge in the congenial occupation of looting, came out of a wagon crying that he had got the little white one. I looked. He was carrying the child Tota, gripping her frock in one of his huge black hands. He stalked up to where we were and held the child before the chief. It is dead father, he said, with a laugh. Now, as I could well see, the child was not dead, but had been hidden away and fainted with fear. The chief glanced at it carelessly and said, Find out with your carry. Acting on this hint, the black devil held up the child and was about to kill it with his knob-stick. This was more than I could bear. I sprang at him and struck him with all my force in the face, little caring if I was speared or not. He dropped Tota on the ground. Oh! he said, putting his hand to his nose. The white spirit has a hard-fist gun-spirit. I will fight you for the child. The soldiers cheered and laughed. Yes, yes, they said. Let Boniani fight the white spirit for the child. Let them fight with assagais. For a moment I hesitated. What chance had I against this black giant? But I had promised poor Hans to save the child if I could, and what did it matter, as well die now as later. However, I had with enough left to make a favour of it, and intimated to the chief through Indava Zimbi, that I was quite willing to condescend to kill Boniani, on condition that if I did so the child's life should be given to me. Indava Zimbi interpreted my words, but I noticed that he would not look on me as he spoke, but covered his face with his hands and spoke of me as the ghost, or the son of the spirit. For some reason that I have never quite understood the chief consented to the duel, I fancy it was because he believed me to be more than mortal, and was anxious to see the last of Boniani. Let them fight, he said, give them assagais and no shields. The child shall be to him who conquers. Yes, yes, cried the soldiers, let them fight. Don't be afraid, Boniani, if he is a spirit, he is a very small one. I was never frightened of man or beast, and I am not going to run away from a white ghost, answered the redoubtable Boniani, as he examined the blade of his great banguan, or stabbing assagai. Then they made a ring round us, gave me a similar assagai, and set his some ten paces apart. I kept my face as calm as I could, and tried to show no signs of fear, though in my heart I was terribly afraid. Humanly speaking, my doom was on me. The giant warrior before me had used the assagai from a child I had no experience of the weapon. Moreover, though I was quick and active, he must have been at least twice as strong as I am. However, there was no help for it, so, setting my teeth, I grasped the great spear, breathed a prayer, and waited. The giant stood a while looking at me, and as he stood, Indava Zimbi walked across the ring behind me, muttering as he passed, give Kul Makumazahan and Oed for him. I will make it all right. As I had not the slightest intention of commencing the fray, I thought this good advice, though how Indava Zimbi could make it all right, I failed to see. How long that half-minute seemed. It happened many years ago, but the whole scene rises up before my eyes as I write. There behind us was the blood-stained lager, and near it lay the piles of dead. Around us was rank upon rank of plumed savages, standing in silence to wait to the issue of the duel. And in the centre stood the grey-haired chief and general Sususa, in all his warfinery, a cloak of lepid skin upon his shoulders. At his feet lay the senseless form of little Tota. To my left squatted Indava Zimbi, nodding his white lock and muttering something, probably spells. While in front was my giant antagonist, his spear aloft in his plumes wavering in the gentle wind. Then overall, over grassy slope river and copy, over the wagons of the lager, the piles of dead, the dense masses of the living, the swooning child, over all shone the bright impartial sun, looking down like the indifferent eye of heaven, upon the loveliness of nature and the cruelty of man. Down by the river grew thorn-trees, and from them floated the sweet scent of the mimosa-flower, and came the sound of cooing turtledoves. I never smell the one or hear the other without the scene flushing into my mind again, complete in its every detail. Suddenly, without a sound, Balmyani shook his asagai and rushed straight at me. I saw his huge form come like a man in a dream. I saw the broad spear flash on high. Now he was on me. Then, prompted to it by some providential impulse, or had the spells of Endaba Zimbi anything to do with the matter, I dropped to my knee and, quick as light stretched out my spear. He drove at me. The blade passed over my head. I felt a weight on my asagai. It was wrenched from my hand. His great limbs knocked against me. I glanced round. Balmyani was staggering along with head thrown back and outstretched arms from which his spear had fallen. His spear had fallen, but the blade of mine stood out between his shoulders. I had transfixed him. He stopped, swung slowly round as though to look at me. Then, with asai, the giant sank down, dead. For a moment there was silence. Then a great cry rose, a cry of Balmyani is dead. The white spirit has slain Balmyani. Kill the wizard. Kill the ghost who has slain Balmyani by witchcraft. Instantly I was surrounded by fierce faces and spears flushed before my eyes. I folded my arms and stood calmly waiting the end. In a moment it would have come, for the warriors were mad at seeing their champion overthrown thus easily. But presently through the tumult, I heard the high cracked voice of Endaba Zimbi. Stand back, you fools, it cried. Can a spirit then be killed? Spear him, spear him, they roared in fury. Let us see if he is a spirit. Out of the spirit slay Balmyani with an asagai. Spear him, rainmaker, and we shall see. Stand back, cried Endaba Zimbi again, and I will show you if he can be killed. I will kill him myself and call him back to life again before your eyes. Makumazahan, trust me, he whispered in my ear, and the sisu tutang, which the gizulus do not understand. Trust me, kneel on the grass before me, and when I strike you with my spear, roll over like one dead. Then, when you hear my voice again, get up. Trust me, it is your only hope. Having no choice, I nodded my head in ascent, though I had not the faintest idea of what he was about to do. The tumult lessened somewhat, and once more the warriors drew back. Great white a spirit, spirit of victory, said Endaba Zimbi, addressing me aloud, and covering his eyes with his hand. Hear me, and forgive me. These children are blind with vally, and think they mortal, because thou hast dealt death upon a mortal who dared to stand against thee. Dane to kneel down before me, and let me pierce thy heart with this spear. Then when I call upon thee, arise unhurt. I knelt down, not because I wished to, but because I must. I had not over much faith in Endaba Zimbi, and thought it probable that he was in truth about to make an end of me. But really I was so worn out with fears, and the horrors of the night and day had so shaken my nerves, that I did not greatly care what befell me. When I had been kneeling must for about half a minute, Endaba Zimbi spoke. People of theum tetra, children of jaka, he said, draw back a little way lest an evil fall upon you, for now the air is thick with ghosts. They drew back a space, leaving us in a circle about twelve yards in diameter. Look on him who kneels before you, went on Endaba Zimbi, and listened to my words, to the words of the witch finder, the words of the rainmaker, Endaba Zimbi, whose fame is known to you. He seems to be a young man, does he not? I tell you, children of theum tetra, he is no man. He is the spirit who gives victory to the white men. He it is who gave them asagais that thunder, and taught them how to slay. Why were the impies of Dingan rolled back at the blood river? Because he was there. Why did the amabuna slay the people of Mosulatsky by the thousand? Because he was there. And so I say to you that, had I not drawn him from the lager by my magic, but three hours ago you would have been conquered. Yes, you would have been blown away like the dust before the wind. You would have been burnt up like the dry grass in winter when the fire is awake among it. I, because he had but been there, many of your bravest were slain and overcoming of you. A pinch of man who could be counted on the fingers. But because I loved you, because your chief Sususa is my half-brother, for had we not one father, I came to you, I warned you. Then you prayed me, and I drew the spirit forth, but you were not satisfied when the victory was yours. When the spirit of all you had taken asked but one little thing, a white child would take away and sacrifice to himself to make the medicine of his magic of—here, I could hardly restrain myself from interrupting, but thought better of it. You said him nay, you said, let him fight with a bravest man. Let him fight with Bomiani, the giant for the child. And he deigned to slay Bomiani as you have seen, and now you say slay him, he is no spirit. Now I will show you if he is a spirit, for I will slay him before your eyes and call him to life again. But you have brought this upon yourselves, had you believed, had you offered no insult to the spirit, he would have stayed with you, and you should have become unconquerable. And now he will arise and leave you, and will be on you if you try to stay him. Now all men, he went on, look for a space upon his as a guy that I hold up, and he lifted the bang-wan of the deceased Bomiani high above his head, so that all the multitude could see it, every eye was fixed upon the broad, bright spear. For a while he held it still, then he moved it round and round in a circle, muttering as he did so, and still their gaze followed it. For my part I watched his movements with the greatest anxiety, that as a guy had already been nearer my person than I found at all pleasant, and I had no desire to make a further acquaintance with it. Nor indeed was I sure that Indaba Zimbi was not really going to kill me. I could not understand his proceedings at all, and at the best I did not relish playing the corpus vile to his magical experiments. Look, look, look! He screamed, then suddenly the great spear flashed down towards my breast, I felt nothing, but to my sight it seemed as though it had passed through me. See! roared the Zulu's Indaba Zimbi as beauty, the red asa guy stands out behind his back. Roll over, M'Kumazohan, Indaba Zimbi hissed in my ear, roll over and pretend to die, quick, quick! I lost no time in following these strange instructions, but falling onto my side through my arms wide kicked my legs about and died as artistically as I could. Presently I gave a stage shiver and lay still. See! said the Zulu's, he is dead, the spirit is dead! Look at the blood upon the asa guy! Stand back, stand back! cried Indaba Zimbi, O the ghost will haunt you! Yes, he is dead, and now I will call him back to life again! Look! and putting down his hand he plucked the spear from wherever it was fixed and held it aloft. This spear is red, is it not? Watch men! watch! It grows white! Yes, it grows white! they said. Oh! it grows white! It grows white because the blood returns to once it came, said Indaba Zimbi. And now great spirit hear me! Thou art dead, the breath has gone out of thy mouth. Yet hear me and rise! Awake, white spirit! Awake, and show thy power! Awake! Arise! unhurt! I began to respond cheerfully to this imposing invocation, not so fast Makumazahan, whispered Indaba Zimbi. I took the hint, and first held up my arm, and lifted my head and let it fall again. He lives! by the head of Chaka, he lives! roared the soldiers, stricken with mortal fear. Then slowly, and with the greatest dignity, I gradually rose, stretched my arms, yawned like one awakening from heavy sleep, turned and looked upon them unconcernedly. While I did so, I noticed that old Indaba Zimbi was almost fainting from exhaustion. Beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, his limbs trembled, and his breast heaved. As for the Zulus they waited for no more, with a howl of terror the whole regiment turned and fled across the rise, so that presently we were left alone with the dead, and the swinning child. How on earth did you do that, Indaba Zimbi? I asked in amazement. Do not ask me, Makumazahan, he asked. You white men are very clever, but you don't quite know everything. There are men in the world who can make people believe they see things which they do not see. Let us be going while we may, for when those deadwars have got over their fright, they will come back to loot the wagons, and then perhaps they will begin asking questions I can't answer. And here I may as well state that I never got any further information on this matter from old Indaba Zimbi, but I have my theory, and here it is, for whatever it may be worth. I believe that Indaba Zimbi mesmerized the whole crowd of onlookers, myself included, making them believe that they saw the Asagai in my heart, and the blood upon the blade. The reader may smile and say impossible, but I would ask him how the Indian jugglers do their tricks unless it is by mesmerism. The spectators seem to see the boy go under the basket, and they are pierced with daggers. They seem to see women in a trance, supported in mid-air upon the point of a single sword. In themselves these things are not possible, they violate the laws of nature, as those laws are known to us, and therefore must surely be illusion. And so, through the glamour thrown upon them by Indaba Zimbi's will, that Zulu impi seem to see me transfixed with an Asagai which never touched me. At least that is my theory. If any one has any better, let him adopt it. The explanation lies between illusion and magic of a most imposing character, and I prefer to accept the first alternative.