I believed this to be true, but even if it were not so it would have made but little difference. The tale told me by old Gegesa had so inflamed my blood that I could wait no longer. Vengeance, now at once—now, before it escaped me. I could wait no more.
A little while longer did Jambúla and I whisper together. Then softly and silently we stole forth into the night.
Chapter Nine.
“To Slay Thee, Son of Matyobane.”
The great kraal, Kwa’zingwenya, slept. All was dark and still as we drew near it, Jambúla and I. We could make out dimly in the starlight the immense circle of domed huts within their ringed fences, but not so much as the spark of a distant fire showed that any within were awake. Treading cautiously, we took our way round to the upper end of the great circle.
At every gate bodies of armed guards were posted, yet in the darkness two men, stealthy, silent as serpents, glided by unnoticed—no dog even was roused to give warning of their approach. Two men, alone. Success, and on the morrow the nation would hail a new king. Failure, and the lives of these two, and of all their kith and kindred, would be taken mercilessly.
Having reached our point we set to work. Twig by twig, thorn by thorn, we began to breach the thick prickly fence; long and silently we worked until the hole was large enough for the body of a man to creep through. But it was done at last, and I stood within the isigodhlo.
Jambúla was to remain outside. If all went well, that is, if he saw or heard nothing the night through, he was to enter himself shortly before dawn, and having stopped up the hole from the inside, was to await my orders. If I failed—and that he would not be long in learning—he was to return at full speed to my kraal, and warn the people there to flee at once for their very lives—to flee both fast and far—for it would not be long before the slayers were on their track.