“Is it so?” he said presently.  “Wow!  I say again that had it not been for Saduko, the son of Matiwane, yonder, who had some quarrel with Indhlovu-ene-Sihlonti about a woman and took his chance of vengeance, it might have been I who died of a broken heart upon a rock above the river.  Oh, Saduko, I owe you a great debt and will pay you well; but you shall be no friend of mine, lest we also should chance to quarrel about a woman, and I should find myself dying of a broken heart on a rock above a river.  O my brother Umbelazi, I mourn for you, my brother, for, after all, we played together when we were little and loved each other once, who in the end fought for a toy that is called a throne, since, as our father said, two bulls cannot live in the same yard, my brother.  Well, you are gone and I remain, yet who knows but that at the last your lot may be happier than mine.  You died of a broken heart, Umbelazi, but of what shall I die, I wonder?"*

[*—­That history of Cetewayo’s fall and tragic death and of Zikali’s vengeance I hope to write one day, for in these events also I was destined to play a part.—­A.  Q.]

I have given this interview in detail, since it was because of it that the saying went abroad that Umbelazi died of a broken heart.

So in truth he did, for before his spear pierced it his heart was broken.

Now, seeing that Cetewayo was in one of his soft moods, and that he seemed to look upon me kindly, though I had fought against him, I reflected that this would be a good opportunity to ask his leave to depart.  To tell the truth, my nerves were quite shattered with all I had gone through, and I longed to be away from the sights and sounds of that terrible battlefield, on and about which so many thousand people had perished this fateful day, as I had seldom longed for anything before.  But while I was making up my mind as to the best way to approach him, something happened which caused me to lose my chance.

Hearing a noise behind me, I looked round, to see a stout man arrayed in a very fine war dress, and waving in one hand a gory spear and in the other a head-plume of ostrich feathers, who was shouting out: 

“Give me audience of the son of the King!  I have a song to sing to the Prince.  I have a tale to tell to the conqueror, Cetewayo.”

I stared.  I rubbed my eyes.  It could not be—­yes, it was—­Umbezi, “Eater-up-of-Elephants,” the father of Mameena.  In a few seconds, without waiting for leave to approach, he had bounded through the line of dead princes, stopping to kick one of them on the head and address his poor clay in some words of shameful insult, and was prancing about before Cetewayo, shouting his praises.

“Who is this umfokazana?” [that is, low fellow] growled the Prince.  “Bid him cease his noise and speak, lest he should be silent for ever.”

“O Calf of the Black Cow, I am Umbezi, ‘Eater-up-of-Elephants,’ chief captain of Saduko the Cunning, he who won you the battle, father of Mameena the Beautiful, whom Saduko wed and whom the dead dog, Umbelazi, stole away from him.”