“Yield now,” I roared, raising my bloodstained spear. “Yield or I cleave thee to the heart.”
“As thou wouldst have done Tola,” said a soft voice; and then I stood staring. The tall figure of the fugitive had halted, and, turned towards me, under the full light of the moon, I beheld the face of Lalusini.
“What hast thou done, woman?” I stammered, feeling bewitched.
“The stroke of Sopuza has fallen,” she answered simply. “The spirit of Tshaka the Mighty no longer roars aloud for blood. What then?”
“What then?” I repeated, now quite bewildered. “What then?”
But Lalasini laughed, a low, sweet, bewitching laugh.
“Art thou going to deliver me to be torn in pieces by the cubs of the Lion who is dead, Untúswa?”
For some moments I gazed at her as though I were changed into a stone. Then I turned away.
“Hlala gahle, Lalusini,” I said, over my shoulder. Again she laughed.
“Hamba gahle, son of Ntelani,” she said. “We shall again be together, but not great together—not great—ah, no!—never now.”