“Ha! A long branch!” sneered Dabulamanzi. “A branch cut-off from the Royal Tree. How is that, Qapela?”
“Whou! Qapela!” roared the warriors again, pointing their assegais at him in derision.
“As to ‘cut-off,’ I know not,” answered the other, stung out of his natural respect towards one of the Royal House. “This I know—that that branch now puts forth the most leaves. The ‘word’ from it was: ‘Take the cattle of Mnyamana,’ and I have taken them.”
“But no further shalt thou take them, dead leaf of the cut-off branch,” replied Dabulamanzi, “for we have taken them from thee. See. There they go.”
Away—now quite at a distance, the animals were visible, going at a run, propelled towards the mountain fastnesses by quite a number of men. This fact, too, Qapela noted, and noted with significance, for it meant that by just that number of warriors was the opposing impi reduced, thus bringing it as nearly as possible upon equal terms with his own. He had lost the cattle—for which he was responsible, and the chief to whom he did konza was no indulgent master. But what if he were to avenge their loss? The obligation he would thus lay himself under would far, far outweigh the mere carrying out of his original orders. He stole one quick look over his followers. Yes. The thing could be done, if only he could convey some sort of word or signal that they should strike immediately and in concert.
But there was with Dabulamanzi’s force an old induna named Untúswa, a scarred old battle-dog whose whole life had been spent in a laughing acquaintance with Death, by the side of whose crowded experience such a crisis as this was as the merest child’s play; a born strategist, moreover, whose rapidity of plan had turned the scale of more than one hard fought and bloody struggle. He, while these amenities were going forward, had taken but scant notice of them; instead, had let his observation—the outcome of exhaustive experience—go as to the attitude of the other side, and also that of his own. With regard to the latter, a mere breathed word here and there had been sufficient. Warriors had slipped away unostentatiously from his side—to mingle with the rest—far and near—and as they went, they, too, carried a word.
Untúswa read Qapela’s mind, and Untúswa knew, none better, the supreme advantage of getting in the first blow. Now he lifted up his voice and roared in deep sonorous tone, the war-shout of the King’s party.
“Usútu!”
Like an answering wave in thunder on an iron-bound coast it was taken up and rolled through the multitude. The ranks seemed to tighten a moment, then hurled themselves upon the opposing force. For a few moments there was deadly work—the tramp of feet, the flapping of shield against shie|d, the death-hiss—the strident “I-jjí! I-jjí!” as the spear or heavy knob-stick struck home; then Qapela’s force, overwhelmed, demoralised by the suddenness of the onslaught, broke and fled in blind, scattered confusion, the Usútu impi in hot pursuit. A mandate from Dabulamanzi, however, recalled this, as far as was practicable. He had no wish to destroy his own people, any more of them, that is, than was absolutely necessary, only to show that the King, though an exile, was still the Great Great One, in whose light they lived, and that his wrath could still burn far and terrible upon these rebellious ones. But that mandate could not reach those in the forefront of the pursuit, who, carried away by the irresistible dash and excitement of it all, were already far beyond reach of recall. So the chase kept on, not always to the advantage of the pursuers, for these would often turn—and then it was as the fighting of a cornered wild animal. Mile upon mile this fierce running fight went on, until the shades of evening began to deepen, and then there was just one left, a young man, lithe and fleet of foot; and he, beset by a relentless score, stumbled, gasping and exhausted, his breath coming in labouring sobs, into a white man’s camp, to fall, prone, incapable of further movement, nearly across the white men’s fire.