These were his last words. The murderous fiends, springing upon him, completed their atrocious work—this time effectually. A slight quiver, and the old chief’s body lay still and lifeless.
The tumble of rocks and stones contained, from the very nature of its formation, several holes and caves, and to these now were the bodies dragged. To fling them in, and cover the apertures with stones, was the work of a very short time.
“Hlala-gahle, Zavula! Good night, Zavula!” cried Nxala, raising a hand in mockery. “Rest peacefully. Whau! Our father has left us. We will depart and cry the sibongo to Babatyana the new chief.”
“Yeh-bo! Babatyana the new chief.”
And the cowardly murderers departed from the scene of their abominable deed, and the darkness of black night fell suddenly upon the graves of these two old men, thus barbarously and treacherously done to death; heathen savages both, but estimable and useful according to their lights. And it might well be that the mocking aspiration of the cowardly instigator of their destruction was from that moment to be fulfilled.
Chapter Twelve.
Two Letters.
“How much longer is that man going to hang about here?” said Edala, gazing, somewhat frowningly, from the window of her father’s book room, which looked out upon the cattle-kraals and the group of huts, occupied by the native servants, which stood adjacent thereto.