One of the 24th fired and missed the leader.
'What distance did you sight your rifle at?' asked Florian.
'Four hundred yards, sir,' replied the soldier.
'Absurd! He is certainly six hundred yards off. Do you try, Tyrrell.'
Then Tom, who was a deadly shot, reined up, held his rifle straight between his horse's ears, sighted at six hundred yards, and pressing the butt firmly against his right shoulder and restraining his breath, took aim steadily at the chief, who stood prominently on a fragment of rock, his figure defined clearly against the blue sky like that of a dark bronze statue.
He fired; the bullet pierced the Zulu's forehead, as was afterwards discovered; he fell backward and vanished from sight.
'By Jove, he's knocked over, sir,' said Tom, with a quiet laugh, as he dropped another cartridge into his breech-block, and closed it with a snap.
'Bravo, Tom—a good shot!' said the men of the 24th, while, with a yell of rage that reverberated in the gorge, the Zulus fled, and Florian's scouting party rode on at a canter, and ultimately reached a deserted German mission station at a place called Rhinstorf.
As they rode through the gorge, with the indifference that is born of war and its details, Tom Tyrrell looked with perfect composure on the man he had shot, and remarked to Florian, with a smile:
'These Zulus are certainly one of the connecting links that old Darwin writes about, but links with the devil himself, I think.'