I went forward. In front was a low cliff, hanging over as though it had intended to form a cave, but was not quite sure of its own mind. Under the shelter thus formed, just screened from view in front by a dense growth of scrub lay the form of a man.
Cautiously I peered through the bushes, then put them aside. The form, which was turned away from me, did not stir. Noiselessly I stepped beside it, and then as I bent down to gaze into the face, I could hardly forbear a start. It was the face of Dingane—the face of the King.
Yes; it was the Great Great One himself. He was sound asleep, his head pillowed on one hand, interposed between it and the rock. But how came he here, he who moved armed men in their countless might—he before whom the nations trembled and hid their heads—how came he here, in hiding and alone?
But was he alone? It seemed so, for I could descry no sign—no sound of the presence of men. And while I thus gazed, again that soft whisper breathed into my ear, “Strike, and strike hard! So shall we be great together!”
Strike! Nothing could have been easier. The large form lay there without movement, the heave of the breast, above the heart, turned towards me as though inviting the stroke. Yet, as I gazed, the noble majesty on the countenance of the sleeping King seemed to paralyse my arm. One blow, and Lalusini, by her sorcery, aided by my own warrior prowess, might set me upon Dingane’s seat. Yet, I could not do it.
Then I thought the sleeper stirred.
“He wakes,” I whispered, withdrawing again behind the bushes. Lalusini followed me.
“And art thou so weak, Untúswa?” she said. “Au! For this have I laboured, for this have I plotted and exercised my magic until it was nearly too much forme. Yet not all for greatness, but for revenge. The blood of Tshaka the Mighty flowed over the spear of Dingane; now shall the blood of Dingane flow over thy spear!”
Still I moved not, and she went on: