Umslopogaas, either by accident or design, broke out of the ring and engaged a warrior at some few paces from it.

As he did so, another man ran up and struck him with all his force between his shoulders with his great spear, which, falling on the tough steel shirt, failed to pierce it and rebounded.

For a moment the man stared aghast -- protective armour being unknown among these tribes -- and then he yelled out at the top of his voice -- '_They are devils -- bewitched, bewitched!_' And seized by a sudden panic, he threw down his spear, and began to fly.

I cut short his career with a bullet, and Umslopogaas brained his man, and then the panic spread to the others.
'_Bewitched, bewitched!_' they cried, and tried to escape in every direction, utterly demoralized and broken-spirited, for the most part even throwing down their shields and spears.
On the last scene of that dreadful fight I need not dwell.

It was a slaughter great and grim, in which no quarter was asked or given.