“Sikukuni wants rifles for his men, such as the Boers use. He has heard of the Inkosis hunting here. To-night he will send an Impi to kill the Inkosis and take their guns.” “These are the words of the Intombi?” “Yes, Inkoos, these are her very words. She was sitting outside the hut, grinding ‘imphi’ (Kafir corn) for beer, when she heard Secocoeni’s messenger order her father to call the men together to kill us to-night.” “I hear. At what time of the night was the killing to be?” “At the first break of the dawn, so that they may have light to take the waggon away by.” “Good! we shall escape them. The moon will be up in an hour, and we can trek away.” The lad’s face fell. “Alas!” he said, “it is impossible; there is a spy watching the camp now. He is up there among the rocks; I saw him as I brought the oxen home. If we move he will report it, and we shall be overtaken in an hour.” Mr. Alston thought for a moment, and then made up his mind with the rapidity that characterises men who spend their lives in dealing with savage races. “Mazooku!” he called to a Zulu who was sitting smoking by the camp-fire, a man whom Ernest had hired as his particular servant. The man rose and came to him, and saluted. He was not a very tall man; but, standing there nude except for the “moocha” round his centre, his proportions, especially those of the chest and lower limbs, looked gigantic. He had been a soldier in one of Cetywayo’s regiments, but having been so indiscreet as to break through some of the Zulu marriage laws, had been forced to fly for refuge to Natal, where he had become a groom, and picked up a peculiar language, which he called English. Even among a people where all the men are fearless he bore a reputation for bravery. Leaving him standing awhile, Mr. Alston rapidly explained the state of the case to Ernest, and what he proposed to do. Then turning, he addressed the Zulu: “Mazooku, the Inkoos here, your master, whom you black people have named Mazimba, tells me that he thinks you a brave man.” The Zulu’s handsome face expanded into a smile that was positively alarming in its extent. “He says that you told him that when you were Cetywayo’s man in the Undi Regiment, you once killed four Basutos, who set upon you together.” Mazooku lifted his right arm and saluted, by way of answer, and then glanced slightly at the assegai-wounds on his chest. “Well, I tell your master that I do not believe you. It is a lie you speak to him; you ran away from Cetywayo because you did not like to fight and be killed as the king’s ox, as a brave man should.” The Zulu coloured up under his dusky skin, and again glanced at his wounds. “Ow-w!” he said.