If the Zulu had been a younger man, he would perhaps have seized the opportunity and grasped the proffered honour, which would have meant instant death to the little chief, and a fierce attack upon any suspected of supporting him.
As it was, the chief took a pinch of snuff, while his bloodshot eyes glared fiercely at the son of Umkomaas, standing within reach of his red and dripping assegai.
“Do you hear, little chief?” he said in his deep tones.
“I hear, and I know. Strike if you will.”
Sirayo took from his head the broken eagle plume, and fixed it on the head of the child.
“Behold your chief!” he cried, lifting his assegai and letting his dark glance sweep along the ranks of excited men. “He is a babe, but he has the heart of a lion. Chief, see your men; they fought like my own Zulus of the far south. Take thought that your heart never turns black towards them.”
Then Sirayo turned into the ruins, and found Hume wetting with his dripping handkerchief the lips of the old woman, who lay bleeding slowly from a wound in the breast. The chief looked at the fallen stones and at the prone body of the Portuguese Captain.
“What evil has happened?” he asked.
“I heard them shout your name, chief,” said Hume, keeping his face bent over the woman; “you have triumphed?”
“Yebo! it was well done, and it was a great fight. Your eyes are no longer dark; that is better than my victory. Ay, it is good! Where are the others?”