Here we waited a little while, listening to the tumult that grew more distant, till presently the dreadful procession of death reappeared, coming round the fence of the Great Kraal and heading straight for the Hill of Slaughter, Hloma Amabutu.

Soon its slopes were climbed, and there among the dark-leaved bushes and the rocks the black soldiers butchered them, every one.
I saw and swooned away.
I believe that I remained senseless for many hours, though towards the end of that time my swoon grew thin, as it were, and I heard a hollow voice speaking over me in Zulu.
"I am glad that the little Son of George has been saved," said the echoing voice, which I did not know, "for he has a great destiny and will be useful to the black people in time to come." Then the voice went on: "O House of Senzangacona! now you have mixed your milk with blood, with white blood.

Of that bowl you shall drink to the dregs, and afterwards must the bowl be shattered"; and the speaker laughed--a deep, dreadful laugh that I was not to hear again for years.
I heard him go away, shuffling along like some great reptile, and then, with an effort, opened my eyes.

I was in a large hut, and the only light in the hut came from a fire that burned in its centre, for it was night time.

A Zulu woman, young and good-looking, was bending over a gourd near the fire, doing something to its contents.