been plunged in deep thought. Presently he came to me and volunteered
to go out and spy upon their movements. At first Hans Botha was against
this idea, saying that he was a "verdomde swartzel"--an accursed black
creature--and would betray us. I pointed out that there was nothing to
betray. The Zulus must know where the waggons were, but it was important
for us to gain information of their movements. So it was agreed that
Indaba-zimbi should go. I told him this. He nodded his white lock, said
"All right, Macumazahn," and started. I noticed with some surprise,
however, that before he did so he went to the waggon and fetched his
"mouti," or medicine, which, together with his other magical apparatus,
he always carried in a 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 Indaba-zimbi 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 Boers 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 waggons and the thorns beneath with earth and 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 up 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