Those Mazitu soon put another complexion upon the affair, for charging with a roar, they drove back the Arabs, who had no space to develop their line, straight into the jaws of that burning hell.  A little later the rest of the Mazitu returned with Babemba and finished the job.  Only quite a few of the Arabs got out and were captured after they had thrown down their guns.  The rest retreated into the centre of the market-place, whither our people followed them.  In this crisis the blood of these Mazitu told, and they stuck to the enemy as Zulus themselves would certainly have done.

It was over!  Great Heaven! it was over, and we began to count our losses.  Four of the Zulus were dead and two others were badly wounded —­no, three, including Mavovo.  They brought him to me leaning on the shoulder of Babemba and another Mazitu captain.  He was a shocking sight, for he was shot in three places, and badly cut and battered as well.  He looked at me a little while, breathing heavily, then spoke.

“It was a very good fight, my father,” he said.  “Of all that I have fought I can remember none better, although I have been in far greater battles, which is well as it is my last.  I foreknew it, my father, for though I never told it you, the first death lot that I drew down yonder in Durban was my own.  Take back the gun you gave me, my father.  You did but lend it me for a little while, as I said to you.  Now I go to the Underworld to join the spirits of my ancestors and of those who have fallen at my side in many wars, and of those women who bore my children.  I shall have a tale to tell them there, my father, and together we will wait for you—­till you, too, die in war!”

Then he lifted up his arm from the neck of Babemba, and saluted me with a loud cry of Baba!  Inkosi! giving me certain great titles which I will not set down, and having done so sank to the earth.

I sent one of the Mazitu to fetch Brother John, who arrived presently with his wife and daughter.  He examined Mavovo and told him straight out that nothing could help him except prayer.

“Make no prayers for me, Dogeetah,” said the old heathen; “I have followed my star,” (i.e. lived according to my lights) “and am ready to eat the fruit that I have planted.  Or if the tree prove barren, then to drink of its sap and sleep.”

Waving Brother John aside he beckoned to Stephen.

“O Wazela!” he said, “you fought very well in that fight; if you go on as you have begun in time you will make a warrior of whom the Daughter of the Flower and her children will sing songs after you have come to join me, your friend.  Meanwhile, farewell!  Take this assegai of mine and clean it not, that the red rust thereon may put you in mind of Mavovo, the old Zulu doctor and captain with whom you stood side by side in the Battle of the Gate, when, as though they were winter grass, the fire burnt up the white-robed thieves of men who could not pass our spears.”