Somala's tone was quick and fierce as he ordered them to halt. But without avail. On they came, howling piteously. Immediately the Arab raised his rifle, and shot down one of the foremost, wounding another. "Stop that, Somala," commanded the doctor, who, with the other two white men, was under the brief impression that for some reason or another Mushad had abandoned his slaves and retired. "The poor devils are not fighting." In no wise deterred by what had happened, the miserable crowd ran forward, yelling more piteously than ever. They were within a hundred yards of the defences, then seventy. "But Mushad is," retorted Somala in a growl. "Stand back all of you, or we will kill you all," he roared, again firing into the densely packed mass of wretched humanity. The shouts and screams which followed upon the discharge were appalling, but what happened next was more so. Like mown grass the whole crowd of the imaginary refugees fell prone on their faces--thus revealing the bulk and flower of the enemy's fighting line. With one mighty roar of savage triumph the ferocious Arabs, hitherto concealed behind the advancing slaves, surged over the prostrate heaps, and were up to the breastwork in a moment. The stratagem of Mushad had been a complete success. The defenders, thus surprised, were simply allowed no time. Several of the Arabs fell before their hurried fire, but not for a second did it delay the fierce, rapid, overwhelming rush. With whirling scimitars the savage Arabs were upon them, hacking, hewing, yelling. The native bearers, in wild panic, threw down their arms and fled out at the other side of the defences, only to be met by the spears of the black auxiliaries waiting there for just such a move, and cut to pieces to a man. The improvised fort was choked with corpses, the frenzied slayers hewing still at the quivering frames, and screaming aloud in a very transport of blood-intoxication. Back to back in a ring, the three white men and Somala, with his two remaining clansmen, stood. But where was Kumbelwa? Not with them, but yet not far away. And around him, like hounds around a buffalo bull at bay, his swarming enemies, leaping, snarling, yet not able to reach him for the terrific sweeps with that dread weapon, shearing a clear space on every hand. "Yield thee, thou great fighter!" cried Mushad, in a dialect very much akin to his own. "Yield thee. Thou at any rate shalt taste our mercy, and shalt fight with us." "_Au_! I yield not. Come, fight with me, O chief! we two alone. Thou wilt not? See, I come to seek thee--_Usutu 'Sutu_!" And in lightning-like charge, the splendid warrior dashed through the swarming crowd, straight for Mushad, clearing his way with his broad blade and resistless rush, his great shield throwing off the blows aimed at him, like the cutwater of a mighty ship ploughing through the waves. The crowd closed behind him, and that was the last of him his white leaders beheld.