The afternoon was now drawing towards evening, but still there were no signs of the Impi.  A wild hope struck us that they might have gone on about their business.  Ever since Indaba-zimbi had heard that the regiment was supposed to belong to the Umtetwa tribe, he had, I noticed, been plunged in deep thought.  Presently he came to me and volunteered to go out and spy upon their movements.  At first Hans Botha was against this idea, saying that he was a “verdomde swartzel”—­an accursed black creature—­and would betray us.  I pointed out that there was nothing to betray.  The Zulus must know where the waggons were, but it was important for us to gain information of their movements.  So it was agreed that Indaba-zimbi should go.  I told him this.  He nodded his white lock, said “All right, Macumazahn,” and started.  I noticed with some surprise, however, that before he did so he went to the waggon and fetched his “mouti,” or medicine, which, together with his other magical apparatus, he always carried in a skin bag.  I asked him why he did this.  He answered that it was to make himself invulnerable against the spears of the Zulus.  I did not in the least believe his explanation, for in my heart I was sure that he meant to take the opportunity to make a bolt of it, leaving me to my fate.  I did not, however, interfere to prevent this, for I had an affection for the old fellow, and sincerely hoped that he might escape the doom which overshadowed us.

So Indaba-zimbi sauntered off, and as I looked at his retreating form I thought I should never see it again.  But I was mistaken, and little knew that he was risking his life, not for the Boers whom he hated one and all, but for me whom in his queer way he loved.

When he had gone we completed our preparations for defence, strengthening the waggons and the thorns beneath with earth and stones.  Then at sunset we ate and drank as heartily as we could under the circumstances, and when we had done, Hans Botha, as head of the party, offered up prayer to God for our preservation.  It was a touching sight to see the burly Dutchman, his hat off, his broad face lit up by the last rays of the setting sun, praying aloud in homely, simple language to Him who alone could save us from the spears of a cruel foe.  I remember that the last sentence of his prayer was, “Almighty, if we must be killed, save the women and children and my little girl Tota from the accursed Zulus, and do not let us be tortured.”

I echoed the request very earnestly in my own heart, that I know, for in common with the others I was dreadfully afraid, and it must be admitted not without reason.

Then the darkness came on, and we took up our appointed places each with a rifle in his hands and peered out into the gloom in silence.  Occasionally one of the Boers would light his pipe with a brand from the smouldering fire, and the glow of it would shine for a few moments on his pale, anxious face.