I came to myself again, and found that I was still on the horse, which was ambling forward across the veld at a rate of about eight miles an hour, and that Scowl was clinging to my stirrup leather and running at my side.  He was covered with blood, so was the horse, and so was I. It may have been our own blood, for all three were more or less wounded, or it may have been that of others; I am sure I do not know, but we were a terrible sight.  I pulled upon the reins, and the horse stopped among some thorns.  Scowl felt in the saddlebags and found a large flask of Hollands gin and water—­half gin and half water—­which he had placed there before the battle.  He uncorked and gave it to me.  I took a long pull at the stuff, that tasted like veritable nectar, then handed it to him, who did likewise.  New life seemed to flow into my veins.  Whatever teetotallers may say, alcohol is good at such a moment.

“Where are the Amawombe?” I asked.

“All dead by now, I think, Baas, as we should be had not your horse bolted.  Wow! but they made a great fight—­one that will be told of!  They have carried those three regiments away upon their spears.”

“That’s good,” I said.  “But where are we going?”

“To Natal, I hope, Baas.  I have had enough of the Zulus for the present.  The Tugela is not far away, and we will swim it.  Come on, before our hurts grow stiff.”

So we went on, till presently we reached the crest of a rise of ground overlooking the river, and there saw and heard dreadful things, for beneath us those devilish Usutu were massacring the fugitives and the camp-followers.  These were being driven by the hundred to the edge of the water, there to perish on the banks or in the stream, which was black with drowned or drowning forms.

And oh! the sounds!  Well, these I will not attempt to describe.

“Keep up stream,” I said shortly, and we struggled across a kind of donga, where only a few wounded men were hidden, into a somewhat denser patch of bush that had scarcely been entered by the flying Isigqosa, perhaps because here the banks of the river were very steep and difficult; also, between them its waters ran swiftly, for this was above the drift.

For a while we went on in safety, then suddenly I heard a noise.  A great man plunged past me, breaking through the bush like a buffalo, and came to a halt upon a rock which overhung the Tugela, for the floods had eaten away the soil beneath.

“Umbelazi!” said Scowl, and as he spoke we saw another man following as a wild dog follows a buck.

“Saduko!” said Scowl.

I rode on.  I could not help riding on, although I knew it would be safer to keep away.  I reached the edge of that big rock.  Saduko and Umbelazi were fighting there.

In ordinary circumstances, strong and active as he was, Saduko would have had no chance against the most powerful Zulu living.  But the prince was utterly exhausted; his sides were going like a blacksmith’s bellows, or those of a fat eland bull that has been galloped to a standstill.  Moreover, he seemed to me to be distraught with grief, and, lastly, he had no shield left, nothing but an assegai.