After that we went back to our posts, and slowly the weary night wore on towards the dawn.  Only those who have watched under similar circumstances while they waited the advent of almost certain and cruel death, can know the torturing suspense of those heavy hours.  But they went somehow, and at last in the far east the sky began to lighten, while the cold breath of dawn stirred the tilts of the waggons and chilled me to the bone.  The fat Dutchwoman behind me woke with a yawn, then, remembering all, moaned aloud, while her teeth chattered with cold and fear.  Hans Botha went to his waggon and got a bottle of peach brandy, from which he poured into a tin pannikin, giving us each a stiff dram, and making attempts to be cheerful as he did so.  But his affected jocularity only seemed to depress his comrades the more.  Certainly it depressed me.

Now the light was growing, and we could see some way into the mist which still hung densely over the river, and now—­ah! there it was.  From the other side of the hill, a thousand yards or more from the laager, came a faint humming sound.  It grew and grew till it gathered to a chant—­the awful war chant of the Zulus.  Soon I could catch the words.  They were simple enough: 

“We shall slay, we shall slay!  Is it not so, my brothers?  Our spears shall blush blood-red.  Is it not so, my brothers?  For we are the sucklings of Chaka, blood is our milk, my brothers.  Awake, children of the Umtetwa, awake!  The vulture wheels, the jackal sniffs the air; Awake, children of the Umtetwa—­cry aloud, ye ringed men:  There is the foe, we shall slay them.  Is it not so, my brothers? S’gee!  S’gee!  S’gee!”

Such is a rough translation of that hateful chant which to this very day I often seem to hear.  It does not look particularly imposing on paper, but if, while he waited to be killed, the reader could have heard it as it rolled through the still air from the throats of nearly three thousand warriors singing all to time, he would have found it impressive enough.

Now the shields began to appear over the brow of the rise.  They came by companies, each company about ninety strong.  Altogether there were thirty-one companies.  I counted them.  When all were over they formed themselves into a triple line, then trotted down the slope towards us.  At a distance of a hundred and fifty yards or just out of the shot of such guns as we had in those days, they halted and began singing again—­

“Yonder is the kraal of the white man—­a little kraal, my brothers; We shall eat it up, we shall trample it flat, my brothers.  But where are the white man’s cattle—­where are his oxen, my brothers?”

This question seemed to puzzle them a good deal, for they sang the song again and again.  At last a herald came forward, a great man with ivory rings about his arm, and, putting his hands to his mouth, called out to us asking where our cattle were.