"Charge! Children of the Zulu!" There is a roar, a thunder of feet, a flashing of spears, a bending of plumes, and, like a river that has burnt its banks, like storm-clouds before the gale, we sweep down upon friend and foe.

They form up to meet us; the stream is passed; our wounded rise upon their haunches and wave us on.

We trample them down.

What matter?
They can fight no more.

Then we meet Zwide rushing to greet us, as bull meets bull.