“Fool! Would you destroy your friends? The snake itself fled, though we were bound, because our fetish is more powerful.”
The native dropped his arm, and looked half terrified at the eyes that were fixed upon him by the silent and helpless group.
There was a sound of men climbing the wall, of metal striking against the rocks, of the Zulu war-shout, ringing loud above the despairing cries of their defeated foes.
“Release us, dog, before it is too late!” cried Sirayo hoarsely, while the blood, rushing to his eyes, gave them an awful appearance, as he glared at the now cowed native.
A man appeared at the door panting, streaming with blood, a broken feather drooping from his hair. He staggered into the room, and, as he advanced, the first native grovelled at his feet, sobbing.
Sirayo thrust out his hands, calling out: “Cut these; the Zulus are our enemies.”
The new-comer brushed his hand across his brow and flicked the blood from his fingers.
“Who are you?”
“A chief, like you. Quick—cut; we can save you.”
There was a fall of stones, the Zulu cry rose within the walls. The wounded man, stooping, severed the tough rheims with the sharp blade of his stabbing assegai, then drew it across the thongs about the ankles.