the extraordinary courage of the man, or to avoid being struck with
the 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 Dingaan, 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 killed." That is the motto of the Zulu soldier. It
has the merit of simplicity.

Meanwhile the warriors were looting the waggons, including my own,
having first thrown all the dead Boers into a heap. I looked at the
heap; all of them were there, including the two stout fraus, poor
things. But I missed one body, that of Hans Botha'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, Bombyane, who had left my side to indulge in
the congenial occupation of looting, came out of a waggon 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. "Is it 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.