They had come into the Zulu country as ordinary traders, with two waggons. Fleetwood, of course, was well aware that under existing circumstances trade would be almost at a standstill, but the waggon loads were a pretext; a blind to cover their real intentions.
Now the Zulu before mentioned got up, stretched himself, and strolled leisurely over to them. He was an elderly man with a pleasing face, and, if anything, inclined to stoutness.
“There is thunder in the air,” he said, in a casual tone.
“I made that remark but now, Hlabulana,” answered Fleetwood. “Well?”
“While sitting over yonder my ears were open to other sounds than the chatter of these Amakafula,” went on the Zulu in the same low, matter-of-fact tones. “They heard sounds of war.”
“Of war?” repeated Joe, examining the edge of the knife. “Now what sounds were they, Hlabulana?”
“The rush of many feet—the rumble of hoofs. Men are striving, and it is for cattle.”
“I hear it again,” said Hlabulana, who had resumed his squatting attitude.
“So do I,” said the trader, who had seated himself on the ground, and who, while not seeming to, was listening intently.
“What are you two chaps yarning about?” said Wyvern, raising himself upon one elbow. He had mastered the Zulu tongue so far but indifferently. “Hallo! What the deuce is that? Did you hear it?”