“Come here, Frau, come. Here is Allan Quatermain, the Englishman, the son of the ‘Predicant.’ How goes it, Heer Quatermain, and what is the news down in the Cape yonder?”
“I don’t know what the news is in the Cape, Hans,” I answered, solemnly; “but the news here is that there is a Zulu Impi upon your spoor and within two miles of the waggons. That I know, for I have just shot two of their sentries,” and I showed him my empty gun.
For a moment there was a silence of astonishment, and I saw the bronzed faces of the men turn pale beneath their tan, while one or two of the women gave a little scream, and the children crept to their sides.
“Almighty!” cried Hans, “that must be the Umtetwa Regiment that Dingaan sent against the Basutus, but who could not come at them because of the marshes, and so were afraid to return to Zululand, and struck north to join Mosilikatze.”
“Laager up, Carles! Laager up for your lives, and one of you jump on a horse and drive in the cattle.”
At this moment my own waggons came up. Indaba-zimbi was sitting on the box of the first, wrapped in a blanket. I called him and told him the news.
“Ill tidings, Macumazahn,” he said; “there will be dead Boers about to-morrow morning, but they will not attack till dawn, then they will wipe out the laager so!” and he passed his hand before his mouth.
“Stop that croaking, you white-headed crow,” I said, though I knew his words were true. What chance had a laager of ten waggons all told against at least two thousand of the bravest savages in the world?
“Macumazahn, will you take my advice this time?” Indaba-zimbi said, presently.
“What is it?” I asked.