On the plain at the foot of the hill several of the horses were quietly cropping the grass, till such time as the superior animal, man, had settled his differences. Among them was Ernest’s black stallion, “The Devil,” which had been wounded, though slightly, on the flank. They walked towards the horses, stopping on their way to arm themselves from the weapons which lay about. As they passed the body of the man Ernest had killed in his last struggle for life, he stopped and drew the broken assegai from his throat. “A memento!” said he. The horses were caught without difficulty, and “The Devil” and the two next best animals selected. Then they mounted, and rode towards the top of the ridge over which Ernest had seen the body of Zulus lying in reserve. When they were near it Mazooku got down and crept to the crest on his stomach. Presently, to their great relief, he signalled to them to advance: the Zulus had moved on, and the valley was deserted. And so the three passed over the neck, that an hour and a half before they had crossed with sixty-one companions, who were now all dead. “I think we have charmed lives,” said Jeremy, presently. “All gone except us two. It can’t be chance.” “It is fate,” said Ernest, briefly. From the top of the neck they got a view of the camp, which now looked quiet and peaceful, with its white tents and its Union Jack fluttering as usual in the breeze. “They must be all dead too,” said Ernest; “which way shall we go?” Then it was that Mazooku’s knowledge of the country proved of the utmost service to them. He had been brought up at a kraal in the immediate neighbourhood, and knew every inch of the land. Avoiding the camp altogether, he led them to the left of the battle-field, and after two hours’ ride over rough country, brought them to a ford of the Bulialo which he was acquainted with, some miles below where the few survivors of the massacre struggled across the river, or were drowned in attempting to do so. Following this route they never saw a single Zulu, for these had all departed in the other direction, and were spared the horrors of the stampede and of “Fugitives’ Drift.” At last they gained the farther side of the river, and were, comparatively speaking, safe on Natal ground. They determined, after much anxious consultation, to make for the little fort at Helpmakaar, and had ridden about a mile or so towards it, when suddenly the Zulu’s quick ear caught the sound of distant firing to their right. It was their enemy, the Undi Corps, attacking Rorke’s Drift. Leaving Mazooku to hold the horses, Ernest and Jeremy dismounted, and climbed a solitary koppie or hill which just there cropped out from the surface of the plain. It was of an ironstone formation, and on the summit lay a huge flat slab of almost pure ore. On to this they climbed, and looked along the course of the river, but could see nothing. Rorke’s Drift was hidden by a rise in the ground.