Sirayo paused a moment to rub his arms, then, rising up, snatched the battle-axe from the still grovelling native and reached the door. A moment later the blade descended with a crashing blow upon the head of a Zulu who was rushing in. Stooping, he snatched the shield from the dead man, and forced his wounded arm through the band. Up the narrow passage, with eyes gleaming, with a low moaning noise, came a second Zulu. Without a pause he rushed forward, stepped, unheeding, on the quivering body, then bounded at Sirayo. The fierce onset drove the giant warrior back a few feet, but his shield received the thrust, then he struck so fiercely that the blade remained fixed in the skull, and the handle was torn from his grasp by the fall of the stricken man.
“Mawoh, oh chief, a stroke for an ox!” came from behind, and Sirayo saw the Gaika at his side.
“There is not room for two,” said the chief, as with his toes he grasped the haft of an assegai and lifted it to his hand. “See to the others.”
“They are free, but they cannot yet stand, their flesh being too soft, and not of iron, like yours.” The Gaika stooped and pulled the battle-axe from the skull.
“Give me room,” growled Sirayo, and Klaas, looking under the chief’s arm, saw three Zulus standing in the passage. He drew back a step, and rubbing his hand in the sand, took a firmer grip of the handle.
The Zulus stood awhile, with their nostrils quivering at the scent of blood, and their eyes gleaming with satisfaction to think that one of the fugitives had courage to face them. They did not know it was a warrior from the famous fighting stock of their own nation; but they feared nothing now.
“To the good death!” cried the first man, and advanced alone, pausing to roll the dead body against the wall. Then he balanced a throwing assegai, and launched it. The narrow blade struck Sirayo’s shield full, passed through the tough hide, pierced the forearm of the chief, and struck against his ribs.
“A good throw,” said the chief, and bounding forward, drove in his assegai under his opponent’s arm before he could raise his shield. The warrior reeled—then sunk to the ground.
“To the good death!” cried the second Zulu, bounding forward at once, and hurling himself on Sirayo; he grasped the haft of the assegai that still protruded from the shield, and pushed fiercely at it. The chief slipped and fell backwards, and with a hoarse shout of triumph the enemy lifted his arm to plunge his weapon into the broad and naked breast. With an answering shout the Gaika hurled his battle-axe. It struck the Zulu on the temple and flew high into the air. The man himself fell with his hands outspread upon Sirayo, and before the chief could struggle to his feet the third Zulu, whirling a heavy knob-kerrie, rushed to avenge the death of his comrades. Sirayo, by a herculean effort, raised the dead body as a shield, warding off the furious blow, then, seizing his assailant by the leg, he hurled him against the wall, when the warrior, shaken by the grim and blood-stained figure that rose to confront him, turned and fled with a cry of “Sirayo.” Each separate duel had followed with breathless rapidity, and the chief, exhausted by his morning’s fast and suffering from the second wound in his left arm, leant dizzy and faint against the wall, his lips still curling from his white teeth.
The desperate struggle could not be renewed by him if the Zulus returned, and at any moment a fresh string of them might appear. Already there were eager shouts as the escaped warrior spread the news of the presence of Sirayo. Well they knew him from the fight at the waggon; and they would esteem it an honour to vanquish him. Mingled, too, with the cries of his name were the names of his white companions and of the white lady. What would be her fate when they triumphed, as in the end they must?