Umslopogaas bends forward, his long arm shoots out, the axe gleams, and a man who came on falls back.
"One!" cries Umslopogaas.
"One, my brother!" answers Galazi, as he draws back the Watcher from his blow.
A soldier rushes forward, singing.

To and fro he moves in front of Umslopogaas, his spear poised to strike.

Groan-Maker swoops down, but the man leaps back, the blow misses, and the Slaughterer's guard is down.
"A poor stroke, Sorcerer!" cries the man as he rushes in to stab him.
Lo! the axe wheels in the air, it circles swiftly low down by the ground; it smites upward.

Before the spearsman can strike the horn of Groan-Maker has sped from chin to brain.
"But a good return, fool!" says Umslopogaas.
"Two!" cries Galazi, from the right.
"Two! my brother," answers Umslopogaas.
Again two men come on, one against each, to find no better luck.

The cry of "Three!" passes from brother to brother, and after it rises the cry of "Four!" Now Faku bids the men who are left to hold their shields together and push the two from the mouths of the paths, and this they do, losing four more men at the hands of the brethren before it is done.
"Now we are on the open! Ring them round and down with them!" cries Faku.
But who shall ring round Groan-Maker that shines on all sides at once, Groan-Maker who falls heavily no more, but pecks and pecks and pecks like a wood-bird on a tree, and never pecks in vain?
Who shall ring round those feet swifter than the Sassaby of the plains?
Wow! He is here! He is there! He is a sorcerer! Death is in his hand, and death looks out of his eyes! Galazi lives yet, for still there comes the sound of the Watcher as it thunders on the shields, and the Wolf's hoarse cry of the number of the slain.