"Way for the chief's white men!" cried the Angoni Zulu, staggering from his hurts.
"Bayate! to the white men," shouted the warriors, rattling their spears.
"We are no chiefs men," said Compton, proudly.
"Ohe!" said Muata, overhearing the words. "Lion's cub, I hear. Ye shall have the chief's feather; and the great one, where is he?"
Out of the darkness beyond came the chant of deep voices—the song of the men who had held the gate, "The great one," "Lion-throated," "He whose roar filled the valley," and so on, until they recognized the form of their chief, when very wisely they directed their praise to his deeds.
Mr. Hume, bare-armed, reeking of battle, hoarse from shouting, stepped up and gripped hands with the boys.
"We go to our house on the hill, chief," he said.
"There will be feasting to-night, my brothers, and your places will be beside the chief," said Muata.
"'Sot for us. Feast well; but watch well also, for Hassan has not had his fill. Come, lads."
They left Muata giving directions for guarding the gate, and went back through the gorge into the valley, and down towards the village, where they were met by a band of women carrying torches and singing. The women formed a ring about them, and in this the chiefs mother danced, stamping her feet, and clapping her hands, while she sang of the battle.