But somehow the tide of slaughter seems to surge round them, not over them, to pass them by. What does it mean? That in the confusion and uncertain light they are counted already dead as they lie there, but even in that case these savages would inevitably rip them with their spears? Something like a glimmer of hope seems to light up the despair at their hearts, as it occurs to them that the surprise and massacre of their enemies may mean ultimate rescue for themselves. Yet who and what are these savages? They are for the most part men of splendid physique, tall and straight, and of a red-brown colour, and their features are of the negroid type. They carry great shields akin to the Zulu, only more oval in shape, and more massive, and the latter is also the case with regard to their short-handled stabbing spears, and their battle-shout is a loud, harsh, inarticulate bark, indescribably terrible when uttered simultaneously by many throats. Here, as uttered by over a thousand, words can hardly express the blood-curdling menace it conveys. But, while thus pondering, the attention of these new arrivals is turned to themselves. Ha! now their time has come. With ready spear two of the savages bend over them. The dark faces are grim and pitiless, and the spears descend, but not to be sheathed in their bodies. The tense thongs, severed in more places than one, fly from them. Their limbs are free. They could hardly realise it. They stared stupidly upward at the ring of faces gazing down upon them. What did it mean? Then their glance fell upon one among that vast increasing group of towering men. If that was not the ghost of Kumbelwa, why it was Kumbelwa himself. And then a string of the most extravagant _sibonga_, bursting from the warrior in question, convinced them that this was indeed so. "In truth, _Amakosi_," he concluded, "well was it for you that Mushad preferred to take his revenge cool, else had these been too late." "But--who are these, Kumbelwa?" said Haviland. "Not the People of the Spider?" gazing at them with renewed interest. "The Ba-gcatya? No. These are the Inswani; they of whom we were talking just lately." "What of Mushad, Kumbelwa? Have they killed him?" "He is unhurt. But I think the death he intended for yourselves, _Amakosi_, is sweet sleep by the side of that which the father of this people is keeping for him. Yonder he sits." Rising, though with difficulty, in the cramped condition of their limbs, the two, together with Somala, looked around for their enemy. The Arab had accepted their rescue with the same philosophy as that wherewith he had met his bonds. "It was written so. God is great," had been his sole comment.