The friendly Zulu was sent down to the river for water, and also to see that the horses did not stray too far. All this time a party of Zulus, supposed to have been about thirty or forty, were concealed and watching the doomed party, who, utterly unsuspicious of an ambush, were seated around, chatting and sipping their coffee. A deep donga lay right across the path subsequently taken by the fugitives, and this served to screen the enemy as he stealthily crawled to his prey. Stealing noiselessly along, hidden by the rank vegetation, and unheard by the unwatchful escort, the savages came nearer and nearer to their quarry, but while creeping along were descried by the watchful eyes of the Kaffir, who, not losing a second, darted back to the Prince, and gave the warning of danger. A little delay now occurs, for his Highness fails to understand the native, who has to appeal to Corporal Grubb, one of the escort, to interpret. The corporal explains to the Prince, who looks at his watch, and (we are told) seeing it was ten minutes to four, says, "You can give your horses ten minutes more." But this must have been countermanded, for the horses were at once collected, and in a few moments were prepared to start. The Prince is carefully and calmly examining his bit and bridle, and, it is surmised, had not sufficiently tightened his girths. His grey horse is a fidgety, troublesome animal to mount, and now appears to be nervous and anxious to break away. Meanwhile all the escort stand to their horses and await the word, which the Prince now gives, "Prepare to mount." But this was the death-signal, for hardly had the order escaped the lips that gave it, and that spoke no other word on earth, than the fearful traditional "Usulu! Usulu!" awoke the echoes of the valley, and a tremendous volley was poured in from the favouring cover of the grass and mealies. All the horses swerved instinctively with terror, and some broke away. Private Rogers was shot before he could mount, and the Prince's tall grey, half mad with fright, became impossible to mount. Where is the English iron nerve that is proof against the panic of a moment? Where are the guardians of England's princely guest? All have lost their courage and their sense of manhood. _Sauve qui peut!_ is the craven spirit of those who had they rallied back to back could have probably saved a noble life and preserved a nation's honour. Not a carbine was loaded, not a sentry placed. Surprise, the most unsoldierlike crime, was allowed, and white with fear each trooper galloped away to save himself, nor drew bridle-rein till miles of country placed safety in his path. Meanwhile, the gallant and unfortunate Prince is losing every chance of escape which the slightest attempt at succour would have given. One friendly hand to steady the scared and ill-broken steed; one carbine, even unloaded, presented at the bush--for the savages had not dared to come forth--or one gallant