“Why, Mopo, son of Makedama? But a few have perished of all the thousands who are gathered together. Number the people and they will not be missed.”
“But a few have died beneath the assegai and the kerrie, O King. Yet hunger and thirst shall finish the spear’s work. The people have neither eaten nor drunk for a day and a night, and for a day and a night they have wailed and moaned. Look without, Black One, there they lie in heaps with the dead. By to-morrow’s light they also will be dead or dying.”
Now, Chaka thought awhile, and he saw that the work would go too far, leaving him but a small people over whom to rule.
“It is hard, Mopo,” he said, “that thou and I must mourn alone over our woes while these dogs feast and make merry. Yet, because of the gentleness of my heart, I will deal gently with them. Go out, son of Makedama, and bid my children eat and drink if they have the heart, for this mourning is ended. Scarcely will Unandi, my mother, sleep well, seeing that so little blood has been shed on her grave—surely her spirit will haunt my dreams. Yet, because of the gentleness of my heart, I declare this mourning ended. Let my children eat and drink, if, indeed, they have the heart.”
“Happy are the people over whom such a king is set,” I said in answer. Then I went out and told the words of Chaka to the chiefs and captains, and those of them who had the voice left to them praised the goodness of the king. But the most gave over sucking the dew from their sticks, and rushed to the water like cattle that have wandered five days in the desert, and drank their fill. Some of them were trampled to death in the water.
Afterwards I slept as I might best; it was not well, my father, for I knew that Chaka was not yet gutted with slaughter.
On the morrow many of the people went back to their homes, having sought leave from the king, others drew away the dead to the place of bones, and yet others were sent out in impis to kill such as had not come to the mourning of the king. When midday was past, Chaka said that he would walk, and ordered me and other of his indunas and servants to walk with him. We went on in silence, the king leaning on my shoulder as on a stick. “What of thy people, Mopo,” he said at length, “what of the Langeni tribe? Were they at my mourning? I did not see them.”
Then I answered that I did not know, they had been summoned, but the way was long and the time short for so many to march so far.
“Dogs should run swiftly when their master calls, Mopo, my servant,” said Chaka, and the dreadful light came into his eyes that never shone in the eyes of any other man. Then I grew sick at heart, my father—ay, though I loved my people little, and they had driven me away, I grew sick at heart. Now we had come to a spot where there is a great rift of black rock, and the name of that rift is U’Donga-lu-ka-Tatiyana. On either side of this donga the ground slopes steeply down towards its yawning lips, and from its end a man may see the open country. Here Chaka sat down at the end of the rift, pondering. Presently he looked up and saw a vast multitude of men, women, and children, who wound like a snake across the plain beneath towards the kraal Gibamaxegu.
“I think, Mopo,” said the king, “that by the colour of their shields, yonder should be the Langeni tribe—thine own people, Mopo.”