Slowly an hour dragged out its weary length. Below all was still as death, the slavers were fast asleep round their fire, and as a gentle zephyr was breezing in from the south, there was no scent to disturb the repose of the great dogs, who seemed to appreciate the warmth of the fire, equally with their tired masters.
All at once the death-like silence was rent by a thundering explosion, which seemed to fairly shake the mighty fabric of the mountain, and to rend the very vault of heaven itself, whilst in the twinkling of an eye, every man amongst the slavers was on his feet, gun in hand, and gazing inquiringly at his nearest comrade.
Hardly had the Titanic echoes ceased to answer one another amongst the mountain fastnesses, than a wild cry went up from the wretched men beside the spring, as they saw the angry river come foaming and dancing towards them—a frothing, bubbling sea of glancing foam—as it flew along down the narrow pass under the weird rays of the ivory moonlight.
But a single look the slavers gave; then, turning as one man, the whole band rushed blindly for the hill, but scarcely had they commenced to climb, when the crown of the ascent seemed to fairly open before their astonished eyes in a glancing sheet of flame, as Grenville gave the word, and two score angry rifles poured their deadly contents into the surging mob of humanity but fifty yards below, whilst a chorus of shrieks and imprecations went up to heaven, and men rolled over in every direction, dead and dying, thus testifying to the fatal results of the discharge.
The slavers paused aghast; but, with a wild, deep-throated bay, the noble hounds sprang forward, undaunted by the presence of the foe—useless bravery, for Grenville kept his word: the moonlight was good enough to shoot by, and three shots from his Winchester accounted for the three great dogs in much less time than it takes to tell.
Meantime the water was rushing forward like a living thing, and the slavers, forced onwards by it, dashed up the hill in a positive frenzy of fear, paying no attention to their leader, who vainly shouted to them to keep their heads, as the water would take some time to rise the height of the steep ascent. On they came in spite of another blinding discharge, which absolutely singed their faces and thinned their ranks by quite one-half, and then, hand to hand, the combatants met with a mighty roar. Hither and thither swung the fight in all its ghastly details, the crash of the axes, and the rapid detonations of the revolver-pistols, almost drowning the war-cries of the Zulus as they wreaked their righteous vengeance upon their late tormentors. Soon, however, friend and foe were so closely blent together that even Grenville—who kept out of a scrimmage in which he was yet too weak to take his accustomed part—found it extremely difficult work to get in a single shot without danger to his own people.
The Slaver-Chief was unquestionably a brave man, and in his fighting cry there was inspiration for his band; but what could he do when three such men as Leigh, Kenyon, and Amaxosa would, if they could help it, fight neither with small nor great but with himself only; whilst Grenville, meantime, watched, lynx-eyed, for a chance of putting a bullet through him?
Four times did this determined trio charge the slavers, axe in hand, and Zero himself at last fell upon a heap of his companions, whose living bodies had lately been his only rampart against these vindictive and invincible foes.
Upon the fall of the Slaver-Chief a mighty shout went up from the little band of friends, and the few remaining slavers immediately threw down their arms and begged for mercy. Mercy! Fools! What could they expect? A Zulu shows no mercy to a beaten foe, and if beaten himself he asks none. Moreover, the foe in this case richly deserved all he got, for he had been guilty of every species of senseless and abominable cruelty under heaven, and merited to the full a far more dreadfully retributive justice than the sudden and almost painless death which he received at the hands of his relentless executioners.
So much for one side, now for the other. Four of the white men rescued from the Mormons by Leigh and Kenyon, were stone dead, as were three Zanzibaris, who had stayed on the spot in an unaccustomed and ill-fated excess of valour or curiosity. The remaining white man, a sturdy young Highlander, named Duncan Ewan, had received a nasty scalp wound, whilst five of the Zulus were lying about very severely cut up, though all would recover with careful treatment. Of the three champions, Amaxosa was the only one who had received any hurt, and that was superficial, a bullet having grazed and laid open one side of his face. Hastily our friends shook hands with one another—and with themselves, so to speak—and then Leigh and Amaxosa, supported by all the available Zulus, started off at speed upon the trail of the departed slave-gang, leaving Grenville and Kenyon (together with the frightened Zanzibaris, who were cautiously returning by twos and threes from the four winds of heaven, whither they had fled when the first shot was fired) to get the wounded into a place of safety; for the water was still rapidly rising, and once over the crest of the hill, it would simply sweep the whole plain towards the north, unless something could be done to stop its wild career. Quickly getting the wounded men out of the pass, and some little way up the mountain side, Grenville and Kenyon next made a careful examination of the old course, of the river beyond the pass, and found that if they could blow up one mighty piece of rock, the river would immediately descend through the medium of a waterfall into its own original bed. The pair, accordingly, returned to the scene of the fight in order to collect all the gunpowder belonging to the deceased slavers; but hardly had they reached the spot than Kenyon, to Grenville’s utter astonishment, let out a bitter curse. “Fooled,” he cried, “as I’m a living sinner—fooled again by that cursed fox!” and turning quickly, as a mocking laugh grated upon their ears, Zero was seen by the pair standing upon a rock at the northern outlet of the pass, perhaps a hundred yards away, and taking aim at them with his rifle. Grenville’s Winchester went up like a flash, and the two reports blended into one. The slaver’s bullet whistled harmlessly past their ears, and at the same instant he was seen to drop his gun, and clap his hand upon his left shoulder, and then, shaking his fist angrily at Grenville, he hurled a vile curse at the two friends, and, springing down from the rock, was at once lost to view amidst the gloomy shadows of the mountain.