The last crimson rays of the setting sun were flooding the plain with light. Blood-red they shone upon the spear-torn canvas of the waggons and upon the stained and trampled veldt. Even the bodies of the Kaffirs looked red as they lay in every shape and attitude; some as though they slept; some with outstretched arms and spears gripped tight; some with open mouths as they had died shouting their way-cry. Ralph looked at them and was thankful that it was not we white people who lay thus, as it might well have been. Then, just as he was turning towards the laager, he thought that he saw something move in a tussock of thick grass, and rode towards it. Behind the tussock lay the body of a young Kaffir, not an uncommon sight just there, but Ralph was so sure that he had seen it move that, stirred by an idle curiosity, he dismounted from his horse to examine it. This he did carefully, but the only hurt that he could see was a flesh wound caused by a slug upon the foot, not serious in any way, but such as might very well prevent a man from running. “This fellow is shamming dead,” he thought to himself, and lifted his gun, for in those times we could not afford to nurse sick Kaffirs. Then of a sudden the young man who had seemed to be a corpse rose to his knees, and, clasping his hands, began to beg for mercy. Instead of shooting him at once, as most Boers would have done, Ralph, who was tender-hearted, hesitated and listened while the Kaffir, a pleasant-faced lad and young, besought him for his life. “Why should I spare you,” asked Ralph, who understood his talk well, “seeing that, like all the rest of these, you set upon my people to murder them?” “Nay, chief,” answered the young man, “it is not so. I am no Zulu. I belong to another tribe, and was but a slave and a carrier in the army of Kalipi, for I was taken prisoner and forced to carry mats and food and water,” and he pointed to a bundle and some gourds that lay beside him. “It may be so,” answered Ralph, “but the dog shares his master’s fate.” “Chief,” pleaded the man, “spare me. Although it prevented me from running away with the others, my wound is very slight and will be healed in a day or two, and then I will serve you as your slave and be faithful to you all my life. Spare me and I shall bring you good luck.” “I need that enough,” said Ralph, “and I am sure that you are no Zulu, for a Zulu would not stoop to beg for his life thus,” and he stood thinking. While he thought, Jan, who had seen him from the laager, came up behind. “What are you doing, son,” he asked in an angry voice, “talking to this black devil here alone among the dead? Stand aside and let me settle him if you have not the heart,” and he lifted his gun. “No, father,” said Ralph, pushing it aside, “this man is not a Zulu; he is but a slave-carrier and he has prayed me to spare his life, swearing that he will serve me faithfully. Also he says that he brings good luck.”