“What tale is this, Untúswa?” said the King, mockingly. “Thy song must have been piped by a bird, then, for assuredly nothing human could find foothold there.”
“One man may, in truth, be mistaken, Father,” I answered. “Yet—ask these, ask all who followed the white shield this day.”
Now a murmur arose among those who were with me attending on the King—Xulawayo and Mgwali, and other fighting leaders.
“Yeh-bo!” they cried. “It is even as Untúswa has said, Father. The Song of the Shield was the same as that sung by the stranger sorceress when we went forth to war.”
Umzilikazi’s countenance clouded somewhat, I thought.
“The sorceress has won,” he muttered. “Yet is all this passing strange.”
That night we lay upon the heights of Inkume in battle formation, for we knew not whether another impi might come against us. Yet, weary as we were, we slept not over-much, for when the moon rose it seemed to look down blood-red upon the field of strife; and we—we thought we could see the bodies of those who were slain and gashed rise up once more and fight and slay each other again. Whau! And of the slain there were thousands, for in those days we met shield to shield, spear to spear, and every man slew his enemy or was slain by him. Thousands were there, and when the day dawned the rising of the sun was well-nigh darkened by soaring clouds of vultures, swooping and wheeling on their great soft pinions, awaiting our departure to settle down upon their feast.
With great triumph did we return to Kwa’zingwenya, for although we who had gone forth thence came back with little more than half our number, yet with Kalipe’s force—which, joining us in time to turn the conflict into a rout, had suffered but small loss—we made a brave show; for we had won a great victory, and, I think, Nkose, we had a strangely swelled opinion of ourselves, and that every man thought himself the greatest warrior in the world. Yet we had some cause for our pride, for we had once more met and rolled back the mighty Zulu power, had met and defeated a larger force than our own, one composed of the picked warriors of Dingane’s regiments.
As we drew near to Kwa’zingwenya we heard singing, and lo! a great company of girls, clad in their gayest dancing dresses, came out to meet us. They carried green boughs, which they waved as they sang, and at their head was Lalusini. At sight of her the warriors cried aloud her name, hailing her as their deliverer, for her múti it was which, when their hearts were as water, had turned them to iron once more. But she, smiling kindly at them, turned herself to the King, hailing him by all his titles. This time, however, she sang not the Song of the Shield, but the warriors did, for it was roared forth by the whole impi, and, indeed, it became one of the great songs of our nation, nor do I think it is forgotten yet. Also they sang this song:—
“Are they sharp - the horns of the Bull?
They are sharp. They are strong.
The Lion rushed upon them—
The Lion from the South—
Ou! Where is he - that Lion?
His head was high - loud was his roar:
His tail, too, was high;
But the horns of the Bull are sharp—
Ha! Ha! Now the Black Bull roars alone.”