"No. Only the one who is with you," was the answer. "But the other two will be dead by this time. Their horses were used up, and our people are sure to have overtaken them long before they got to the river. _Au umlungu_!" went on the speaker, "Were you all mad, you four poor whites, that you thought to come into the country of the Great Chief, Sarili, the Chief Paramount, and eat the cattle of his children?" "But this is not his country. It belongs to Moni, the chief of the Amabomvane." "Not his country. Ha!" echoed the listeners, wagging their heads in disdain. "Not his country! The white man's `charm' may be potent, but it has rendered him mad." "Ho, Sarili--father!" chorused the warriors, launching out into an impromptu song in honour of the might and virtues of their chief. "Sarili--lord! The Great, Great One! The deadly snake! The mighty buffalo bull, scattering the enemy's hosts with the thunder of his charge! The fierce tiger, lying in wait to spring! Give us thy white enemies that we may devour them alive. Ha--ah!" The last ejaculation was thundered out in a prolonged, unanimous roar, and inspired by the fierce rhythm of the chant, the warriors with one accord formed up into columns, and the dark serried ranks, marching through the night, swelling the wild war-song, beating time with sticks, the quivering rattle of assegai hafts mingling with the thunderous tread of hundreds of feet, and the gleam of the moonlight upon weapons and rolling eyeballs, went to form a picture of indescribable grandeur and awe. Again and again surged forth the weird rhythm: Ho, Sarili, son of Hintza! Great Chief of the House of Gcaleka! Great Father of the children of Xosa! Strong lion, devourer of the whites! Great serpent, striking dead thine enemies! Give us thy white enemies that we may hew them into small pieces. Ha--Ah! Great Chief! whose kraals overflow with fatness! Great Chief! whose cornfields wave to feed a people! Warrior of warriors, whom weapons surround like the trees of a forest! We return to thee drunk with the blood of thine enemies. "Ha--ha--ha!" With each wild roar, shouted in unison at the end of each of these impromptu strophes, the barbarians immediately surrounding him would turn to Eustace and flash their blades in his face, brandishing their weapons in pantomimic representation of carving him to pieces. This to one less versed in their habits and character would have been to the last degree terrifying, bound and at their mercy as he was. But it inspired in him but little alarm. They were merely letting off steam. Whatever his fate might eventually be, his time had not yet come, and this he knew.