Then the people filed past to the right and to the left by hundreds and by thousands, and presently the grass of the slopes could be seen no more, because of their number.

When all had passed, Chaka spoke again to Makedama, my father, bidding him climb down to the bottom of the donga, and thence lift up his voice in mourning.

The old man obeyed the king.

Slowly, and with much pain, he clambered to the bottom of the rift and stood there.

It was so deep and narrow that the light scarcely seemed to reach to where he stood, for I could only see the white of his hair gleaming far down in the shadows.
Then, standing far beneath, he lifted up his voice, and it reached the thousands of those who clustered upon the slopes.