From the other side of the hill, a thousand yards or more from the laager, came a faint humming sound.

It grew and grew till it gathered to a chant--the awful war chant of the Zulus.

Soon I could catch the words.

They were simple enough: "We shall slay, we shall slay! Is it not so, my brothers?
Our spears shall blush blood-red.

Is it not so, my brothers?
For we are the sucklings of Chaka, blood is our milk, my brothers.