At first I hesitated, but curiosity overcame me. I was young in those days and weary with suspense. “Very well,” I said, “we will go.” So we started. I had my elephant gun and ammunition. Indaba-zimbi had his medicine bag and an assegai. We crept to the top of the rise like sportsmen stalking a buck. The slope on the other side was strewn with rocks, among which grew bushes and tall grass. “They must have gone down the Donga,” I said to Indaba-zimbi, “I can’t see one of them.” As I spoke there came a roar of men all round me. From every rock, from every tuft of grass rose a Zulu warrior. Before I could turn, before I could lift a gun, I was seized and thrown. “Hold him! Hold the White Spirit fast!” cried a voice. “Hold him, or he will slip away like a snake. Don’t hurt him, but hold him fast. Let Indaba-zimbi walk by his side.” I turned on Indaba-zimbi. “You black devil, you have betrayed me!” I cried. “Wait and see, Macumazahn,” he answered, coolly. “Now the fight is going to begin.” CHAPTER V. THE END OF THE LAAGER I gasped with wonder and rage. What did that scoundrel Indaba-zimbi mean? Why had I been drawn out of the laager and seized, and why, being seized, was I not instantly killed? They called me the “White Spirit.” Could it be that they were keeping me to make me into medicine? I had heard of such things being done by Zulus and kindred tribes, and my blood ran cold at the thought. What an end! To be pounded up, made medicine of, and eaten! However, I had little time for further reflection, for now the whole Impi was pouring back from the donga and river-banks where it had hidden while their ruse was carried out, and once more formed up on the side of the slope. I was taken to the crest of the slope and placed in the centre of the reserve line in the especial charge of a huge Zulu named Bombyane, the same man who had come forward as a herald. This brute seemed to regard me with an affectionate curiosity. Now and again he poked me in the ribs with the handle of his assegai, as though to assure himself that I was solid, and several times he asked me to be so good as to prophesy how many Zulus would be killed before the “Amaboona,” as they called the Boers, were “eaten up.” At first I took no notice of him beyond scowling, but presently, goaded into anger, I prophesied that he would be dead in an hour! He only laughed aloud. “Oh! White Spirit,” he said, “is it so? Well, I’ve walked a long way from Zululand, and shall be glad of a rest.” And he got it shortly, as will be seen. Now the Zulus began to sing again— “We have caught the White Spirit, my brother! my brother! Iron-Tongue whispered of him, he smelt him out, my brother. Now the Maboona are ours—they are already dead, my brother.”