Now, my father, the track below separated, because of a boulder, and there were two little paths which led to the platform of the Witch’s knees with, perhaps, ten paces between them. Umslopogaas guarded the left-hand path and Galazi took the right. Then they waited, having spears in their hands. Presently the soldiers came round the rock and rushed up against them, some on one path and some on the other.
Then the brethren hurled their spears at them and killed three men. Now the assegais were done, and the foe was on them. Umslopogaas bends forward, his long arm shoots out, the axe gleams, and a man who came on falls back.
“One!” cries Umslopogaas.
“One, my brother!” answers Galazi, as he draws back the Watcher from his blow.
A soldier rushes forward, singing. To and fro he moves in front of Umslopogaas, his spear poised to strike. Groan-Maker swoops down, but the man leaps back, the blow misses, and the Slaughterer’s guard is down.
“A poor stroke, Sorcerer!” cries the man as he rushes in to stab him. Lo! the axe wheels in the air, it circles swiftly low down by the ground; it smites upward. Before the spearsman can strike the horn of Groan-Maker has sped from chin to brain.
“But a good return, fool!” says Umslopogaas.
“Two!” cries Galazi, from the right.
“Two! my brother,” answers Umslopogaas.
Again two men come on, one against each, to find no better luck. The cry of “Three!” passes from brother to brother, and after it rises the cry of “Four!”