Some of the men were already in the saddle, others in the act of mounting, when a sudden volley fired upon them from amongst the tall stalks of the mealies (Indian corn) which grew on every side, betrayed the presence of a numerous armed foe, who had returned unseen to those who were in temporary occupation of their kraals. The distance was not twenty yards, and the long grass swayed to the sudden rush of the Zulus, as with a tremendous shout, they charged towards the Prince and his companions. The horses all swerved at the suddenness of the tumult, and one broke away, its rider being shot before he could recover it and mount. The young Prince was riding a fine gray charger, a gray of sixteen hands, always difficult to mount, and on this occasion, frightened by the firing, it became restive and could not be controlled. Lieutenant Carey, apparently, had at this moment been carried by his horse in a direction which brought one of the huts between him and the Prince, of whose difficulties he was therefore unaware. From the moment of the attack no man seems to have known much of what the rest were doing; to gallop away was the only chance for life, and all hurried off, the Prince in vain endeavouring to mount his restive steed unaided. He was passed by Trooper Letocq: “_Dépêchez vous, s’il vous plait, Monsieur!_” he cried, as he dashed past, himself only lying across his saddle, but the Prince made no answer; he was already doing his utmost, and in another minute he was alone. He was seen endeavouring to mount his rearing charger, as it followed the retreat, while he ran beside it, the enemy close at hand. He made one desperate attempt to leap into the saddle by the help of the holster-flap; _that_ gave way, and then he fell. The charger dashed riderless past some of the mounted men, who, looking back, saw the Prince running after them on foot, with the Zulus but a few paces behind him. Alas! not a man turned back, they galloped wildly on, and carried back to camp the news that the gallant young Prince, for or with whom each of them should have died that day, lay slain upon the hillside where he had made his last brave stand alone. Two troopers fell besides—one was struck down by a bullet as he rode away; the other was the man who had lost his horse, Trooper Rogers, and who was last seen in the act of levelling his carbine at the enemy. The native guide was killed as well, after a hard fight with the foe, witnessed to by the blood-stained and broken weapons found by his side next day. The fugitives rode on for some distance, when they met General Wood and Colonel Buller, to whom they made their report. From the brow of an adjacent hill these officers, looking through their glasses, could see the Zulus leading away the horses they had taken—the trophies of their successful attack.