For a moment there was a silence of astonishment, and I saw the bronzed faces of the men turn pale beneath their tan, while one or two of the women gave a little scream, and the children crept to their sides.

“Almighty!” cried Hans, “that must be the Umtetwa Regiment that Dingaan sent against the Basutus, but who could not come at them because of the marshes, and so were afraid to return to Zululand, and struck north to join Mosilikatze.”

“Laager up, Carles!  Laager up for your lives, and one of you jump on a horse and drive in the cattle.”

At this moment my own waggons came up.  Indaba-zimbi was sitting on the box of the first, wrapped in a blanket.  I called him and told him the news.

“Ill tidings, Macumazahn,” he said; “there will be dead Boers about to-morrow morning, but they will not attack till dawn, then they will wipe out the laager so!” and he passed his hand before his mouth.

“Stop that croaking, you white-headed crow,” I said, though I knew his words were true.  What chance had a laager of ten waggons all told against at least two thousand of the bravest savages in the world?

“Macumazahn, will you take my advice this time?” Indaba-zimbi said, presently.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This.  Leave your waggons here, jump on that horse, and let us two run for it as hard as we can go.  The Zulus won’t follow us, they will be looking after the Boers.”

“I won’t leave the other white men,” I said; “it would be the act of a coward.  If I die, I die.”

“Very well, Macumazahn, then stay and be killed,” he answered, taking a pinch of snuff.  “Come, let us see about the waggons,” and we walked towards the laager.

Here everything was in confusion.  However, I got hold of Hans Botha and put it to him if it would not be best to desert the waggons and make a run for it.

“How can we do it?” he answered; “two of the women are too fat to go a mile, one is sick in childbed, and we have only six horses among us.  Besides, if we did we should starve in the desert.  No, Heer Allan, we must fight it out with the savages, and God help us!”

“God help us, indeed.  Think of the children, Hans!”

“I can’t bear to think,” he answered, in a broken voice, looking at his own little girl, a sweet, curly-haired, blue-eyed child of six, named Tota, whom I had often nursed as a baby.  “Oh, Heer Allan, your father, the Predicant, always warned me against trekking north, and I never would listen to him because I thought him a cursed Englishman; now I see my folly.  Heer Allan, if you can, try to save my child from those black devils; if you live longer than I do, or if you can’t save her, kill her,” and he clasped my hand.

“It hasn’t come to that yet, Hans,” I said.