In a vast semicircle within the great kraal the men drew up in something like order, regiment on regiment, to the number of two thousand, each regiment with shields differing in colour from those carried by the others.
Sirayo marched through the lines, towering a head above them, and the rows of gleaming eyes followed him, trying in the dark to decipher the features of their new leader. It was an impressive scene—this large body of men, silent and waiting, drawn up under the stars within the wide circle of huts.
Sirayo smiled grimly on returning to the head of the column, after judging the number, to think that so large a body should dream of flying before the small band of Zulus.
“Your enemies are few,” he said; “you are many. Why did you think of flight?”
“They had killed our fetich, and the witch-doctors said we were doomed,” came the response.
“They lied; they were in league with the enemy. Which of the regiments suffered most in the fight?”
“We of the Rock,” said a young Induna proudly; “nearly half of our brothers lie beyond, and they fell facing the foe. I, Inyame, say it.”
“The Regiment of the Rock will draw up on my right.”
There was a movement, and from the mass, with active steps, a body of about three hundred drew up. Sirayo recognised the red and white shields of the men who had first sided with him.
“The regiment of tried fighting men will now draw up on my left.”