The eyes of the dying King kindled, as he swept his glance over this splendid army, and his form seemed to gather renewed life as he sat upright in his chair, his shield-bearer holding on high the great white shield behind him. Then he spoke:
“My children, I have called you here because I desire that the last sight my eyes shall rest on shall be the sight which they have always loved the most to behold, the sight of warriors under arms, of warriors of Zulu.
“What prouder name has the world ever known? Warriors of Zulu! And you—you, my children, have well deserved it and worthily won it. Not in you was it to place your necks beneath the foot of any base slave of the Amabuna, any cur who seeks to roar like the lion, any calf who would fain stamp with the rumble of the elephant, any changeling bastard who would drag the House of Senzangakona into the dust beneath the shoes of the Amabuna. Not in you was it to do this. But you have faithfully cleaved to your real King in shadow as in sunshine, and see now the result. Look around on your own ranks. Very soon now should we have gone forth, for not always was it my intention to sit down here and rest. Then we would have swept the traitors of our own race and the Amabuna into one common pit, and covered them up and stamped them in there for ever.
“I cannot talk many more words to you, my children. But if you have been loyal and faithful to me, your well-being has ever been my care as your father, your brave deeds have ever been my pride as your King. The nation has been divided, but I would have knit it together again. I would have restored it through you, faithful ones, to all its former greatness. But now I have to leave you. The base hand of evil wizardry has found me in my sleep, has struck me down in the night, and now I go into the Dark Unknown.”
“Ma-yé!” moaned the warriors, their heads bowed in grief as Dingane paused. Then, gathering once more fresh strength, with an effort the dying King went on, and his voice rolled clear and strong like a call to battle:
“Lo! I see not the end. I know not who shall reunite this people, who shall deliver it from slavery and disgrace—extinction; for now I must leave it. My eyes are dim and the Dark Unknown is closing in around me. Yet still my last gaze is upon that sight which is the grandest the world ever saw—the warriors of Zulu under arms. Farewell, warriors of Zulu!”
The voice ceased. The head drooped forward on the chest. The great form would have fallen prone from the chair but for those who stood by. The King was dead.
Through the dense ranks there shivered forth one deep moan, and for long no man stirred. All sat in silence, mourning thus the loss of their father and King.
So died Dingane, the second of the mighty Kings of Zulu. Even as the great Tshaka had died the death of the spear at his hand, so died he the death of the spear, being struck in his sleep. But he died as he had lived, and his was the death of a true warrior-king—his last gaze upon the ranks of his assembled army—face to face with it—his last words to it, words of commendation and loving farewell—and who shall say, Nkose, that such was not a great and glorious death?