“Who was your leader?” he said. “The man with the leopard-skin cloak?”
“Matanzima.”
“The son of Sandili?”
“Yes.”
“He is a brave man and fought well. Now, why are you so anxious to look after your wounded at once, instead of waiting until we are gone?”
“The chief’s uncle is among them. The chief fears that his kinsman will die.”
“H’m. Who are you?”
“I am Usivulele the son of Sikunaya,” replied the spokesman of the three.
“H’m. Well, now, listen you three. These are my terms,” said Claverton, decisively. “If you, Usivulele, will remain with me as a hostage till the sun is there” (designating a point in the heavens which that luminary would reach by about four o’clock), “then your people may come and look after their wounded, but not until we are over that second hill. Should they come before, we shall fire on them again, and if they attack us before the hour named, you, Usivulele, shall die the moment a shot is fired. At that hour, if your people observe my conditions, you shall go free and unharmed. Those are my terms, they are not hard; you are at liberty to accept or to reject them.”
The Kafirs debated rapidly for a moment in an undertone. Then Usivulele stepped forward, looking Claverton full in the face.