Unmistakably the sounds of battle. The small Zulu force of marauders
must have come into collision with the people of the valley. It had
happened as Hume had said, up to a certain point; but that point left
them very far short of the possibility of taking advantage of the fight.
Whether the Zulus conquered or were defeated, the result could matter
little to the prisoners in the ruined chamber.
They heard, without hope as without fear, the roar of the distant
fighting, but what affected them keenly was the wailing of the native
music, which all along continued to send forth its monotonous cry. They
could not understand what was meant by this persistent sound, having in
it a wild note of appeal, but they felt it had a closer bearing on their
lives than the din of battle.
Presently, however, they became aware that the fight was coming nearer.
They heard shrill whistling, the occasional sharp crack of a rifle, the
deep shouts of individual warriors, and the loud, continuous roar of
conflict.
It was evident that one party must be in retreat, but fighting
stubbornly.
"The Zulus are getting the worst of it," muttered Hume.
"If we were only free!" growled Webster, and he made a violent struggle
to release his hands.
"The shouts of victory," said Sirayo, "are from the Zulus."
"The fight is coming this way rapidly. The retreating party will surely
make a stand in these ruins, and then--"
"And then we'll be put out of our misery."
Louder and fiercer grew the shouts; but through it all pierced the thin
music, and it, too, came nearer, shrill and despairing--now nearer,
until the musician himself appeared at the door--a wild figure tricked
out with bones and teeth, feathers, and whisps of hair. He stood there
glaring at them a minute like a wild beast; then dashing his reed
instrument to the ground with a yell of rage, he grasped a small
battle-axe that hung from his waist, and flourishing it about, poured
out a flood of denunciation, exactly as the old woman had done.
"Good heavens above," growled Webster, "to be sworn at by a thing like
that."
There came a wild yell of terror from beyond the walls, a cry several
times repeated, there was a rush of many feet, and the triumphant shout
of victory from the pursuers.
"Yoh!" said Sirayo, while a sudden light leapt to his eyes.
The musician was also affected. His eyes rolled, his lips foamed, and
with a scream he rushed forward.
"Hold!" shouted Sirayo in Zulu.
The man stood with his axe poised and glared at the chief.
"You have lost your familiar, your protecting spirit, the great snake!"
The native gnashed his teeth and howled in his fury: "Killed! They have
slain it, and now our nation is doomed; but you who caused this shall
not escape."
"Fool! Would you destroy your friends? The snake itself fled, though
we were bound, because our fetish is more powerful."
The native dropped his arm, and looked half terrified at the eyes that
were fixed upon him by the silent and helpless group.
There was a sound of men climbing the wall, of metal striking against
the rocks, of the Zulu war-shout, ringing loud above the despairing
cries of their defeated foes.
"Release us, dog, before it is too late!" cried Sirayo hoarsely, while
the blood, rushing to his eyes, gave them an awful appearance, as he
glared at the now cowed native.
A man appeared at the door panting, streaming with blood, a broken
feather drooping from his hair. He staggered into the room, and, as he
advanced, the first native grovelled at his feet, sobbing.
Sirayo thrust out his hands, calling out: "Cut these; the Zulus are our
enemies."
The new-comer brushed his hand across his brow and flicked the blood
from his fingers.
"Who are you?"
"A chief, like you. Quick--cut; we can save you."
There was a fall of stones, the Zulu cry rose within the walls. The
wounded man, stooping, severed the tough rheims with the sharp blade of
his stabbing assegai, then drew it across the thongs about the ankles.
Sirayo paused a moment to rub his arms, then, rising up, snatched the
battle-axe from the still grovelling native and reached the door. A
moment later the blade descended with a crashing blow upon the head of a
Zulu who was rushing in. Stooping, he snatched the shield from the dead
man, and forced his wounded arm through the band. Up the narrow
passage, with eyes gleaming, with a low moaning noise, came a second
Zulu. Without a pause he rushed forward, stepped, unheeding, on the
quivering body, then bounded at Sirayo. The fierce onset drove the
giant warrior back a few feet, but his shield received the thrust, then
he struck so fiercely that the blade remained fixed in the skull, and
the handle was torn from his grasp by the fall of the stricken man.
"Mawoh, oh chief, a stroke for an ox!" came from behind, and Sirayo saw
the Gaika at his side.
"There is not room for two," said the chief, as with his toes he grasped
the haft of an assegai and lifted it to his hand. "See to the others."
"They are free, but they cannot yet stand, their flesh being too soft,
and not of iron, like yours." The Gaika stooped and pulled the
battle-axe from the skull.
"Give me room," growled Sirayo, and Klaas, looking under the chief's
arm, saw three Zulus standing in the passage. He drew back a step, and
rubbing his hand in the sand, took a firmer grip of the handle.
The Zulus stood awhile, with their nostrils quivering at the scent of
blood, and their eyes gleaming with satisfaction to think that one of
the fugitives had courage to face them. They did not know it was a
warrior from the famous fighting stock of their own nation; but they
feared nothing now.
"To the good death!" cried the first man, and advanced alone, pausing to
roll the dead body against the wall. Then he balanced a throwing
assegai, and launched it. The narrow blade struck Sirayo's shield full,
passed through the tough hide, pierced the forearm of the chief, and
struck against his ribs.
"A good throw," said the chief, and bounding forward, drove in his
assegai under his opponent's arm before he could raise his shield. The
warrior reeled--then sunk to the ground.
"To the good death!" cried the second Zulu, bounding forward at once,
and hurling himself on Sirayo; he grasped the haft of the assegai that
still protruded from the shield, and pushed fiercely at it. The chief
slipped and fell backwards, and with a hoarse shout of triumph the enemy
lifted his arm to plunge his weapon into the broad and naked breast.
With an answering shout the Gaika hurled his battle-axe. It struck the
Zulu on the temple and flew high into the air. The man himself fell
with his hands outspread upon Sirayo, and before the chief could
struggle to his feet the third Zulu, whirling a heavy knob-kerrie,
rushed to avenge the death of his comrades. Sirayo, by a herculean
effort, raised the dead body as a shield, warding off the furious blow,
then, seizing his assailant by the leg, he hurled him against the wall,
when the warrior, shaken by the grim and blood-stained figure that rose
to confront him, turned and fled with a cry of "Sirayo." Each separate
duel had followed with breathless rapidity, and the chief, exhausted by
his morning's fast and suffering from the second wound in his left arm,
leant dizzy and faint against the wall, his lips still curling from his
white teeth.
The desperate struggle could not be renewed by him if the Zulus
returned, and at any moment a fresh string of them might appear.
Already there were eager shouts as the escaped warrior spread the news
of the presence of Sirayo. Well they knew him from the fight at the
waggon; and they would esteem it an honour to vanquish him. Mingled,
too, with the cries of his name were the names of his white companions
and of the white lady. What would be her fate when they triumphed, as
in the end they must?
"By the Lord, has a single man done this?" It was Webster who spoke.
He had heard the conflict, had seen the first blow given by Sirayo, and
had rubbed fiercely to bring back the blood to his numbed limbs.
"They will come," said Sirayo, speaking slowly; "I will hold them for a
time. When I fall be ready to take my place. The inkosikasi, does she
live?"
"Yes," said Webster, with his eyes brightening at the unyielding courage
of the savage warrior.
"Give her an assegai," he said, and put the point of his blood-stained
blade to his throat.
Webster shuddered at the fearful significance of the gesture, then
picked up an assegai, and stood waiting with the Gaika to bar the
passage.