Next spoke Undabuko, Dabulamanzi and Magwenga, brothers of the king, who all favoured war, though the two last were guarded in their speech.  After these came Uhamu, the king’s uncle—­he who was said to be the son of a Spirit—­who was strong for peace, urging that the king should submit to the demands of the English, making the best terms he could, that he “should bend like a reed before the storm, so that after the storm had swept by, he might stand up straight again, and with him all the other reeds of the people of the Zulus.”

So, too, said Seketwayo, chief of the Umdhlalosi, and more whom I cannot recall, six or seven of them.  But Usibebu and the induna Untshingwayo, who afterwards commanded at Isandhlwana, were for fighting, as were Sirayo, the husband of the two women who had been taken on English territory and killed, and Umbilini, the chief of Swazi blood whose surrender was demanded by Sir Bartle Frere and who afterwards commanded the Zulus in the battle at Ihlobane.  Last of all spoke the Prime Minister, Umnyamana, who declared fiercely that if the Zulu buffalo hid itself in the swamp like a timid calf when the white bull challenged it on the hills, the spirits of Chaka and all his forefathers would thrust its head into the mud and choke it.

When all had finished Cetewayo spoke, saying—­

“That is a bad council which has two voices, for to which of them must the Captain listen when the impis of the foe gather in front of him?  Here I have sat while the moon climbs high and counted, and what do I find?  That one half of you, men of wisdom and renown, say Yes, and that the other half of you, men of wisdom and renown, say No.  Which then is it to be, Yes or No?  Are we to fight the English, or are we to sit still?”

“That is for the king to decide,” said a voice.

“See what it is to be a king,” went on Cetewayo with passion.  “If I declare for war and we win, shall I be greater than I am?  If victory gives me more land, more subjects, more wives and more cattle, what is the use of these things to me who already have enough of all of them?  And if defeat should take everything from me, even my life perhaps, then what shall I have gained?  I will tell you—­the curse of the Zulus upon my name from father to son for ever.  They will say, ’Cetewayo, son of Panda, pulled down a House that once was great.  Because of some small matter he quarrelled with the English who were always the friends of our people, and brought the Zulus to the dust.’  Sintwangu, my messenger, who brought heavy words from the Queen’s induna which we must answer with other words or with spears, says that the English soldiers in Natal are few, so few that we Zulus can swallow them like bits of meat and still be hungry.  But are these all the soldiers of the English?  I am not sure.  You are one of that people, Macumazahn,” he added, turning his massive shape towards me, “tell us now, how many soldiers has your Queen?”