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 Chaka, blood is our milk, my brothers. Awake, children
of the Umtetwa, awake! The vulture wheels, the jackal sniffs the air;
Awake, children of the Umtetwa--cry aloud, ye ringed men: There is
the foe, we shall slay them. Is it not so, my brothers? _S'gee! S'gee!
S'gee!_"

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. Altogether 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 kraal of the white man--a little kraal, 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