his rifle. The assegais 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 with
not be so swift.

The fight was ended, and the two lines on the slope broke their order,
and moved down to the laager. 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, the dead men were picked up
and piled in a heap, while those who were slightly hurt walked off to
find some one to tie up their wounds. But the more serious cases met
with a different treatment. The chief or one of his indunas 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,
though 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 Boers
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