e came. All the thousands of the people also
fell on their hands and knees, and praised the king aloud, and the sound
of their praising was like the sound of a great thunder.

At length Makedama, my father, writhing on his breast like a snake, lay
before the majesty of the king. Chaka bade him rise, and greeted him
kindly; but all the thousands of the people yet lay upon their breasts
beating the dust with their heads.

"Rise, Makedama, my child, father of the people of the Langeni," said
Chaka, "and tell me why art thou late in coming to my mourning?"

"The way was far, O King," answered Makedama, my father, who did not
know me. "The way was far and the time short. Moreover, the women and
the children grew weary and footsore, and they are weary in this hour."

"Speak not of it, Makedama, my child," said the king. "Surely thy heart
mourned and that of thy people, and soon they shall rest from their
weariness. Say, are they here every one?"

"Every one, O Elephant!--none are wanting. My kraals are desolate, the
cattle wander untended on the hills, birds pick at the unguarded crops."

"It is well, Makedama, thou faithful servant! Yet thou wouldst mourn
with me an hour--is it not so? Now, hearken! Bid thy people pass to the
right and to the left of me, and stand in all their numbers upon the
slopes of the grass that run down to the lips of the rift."

So Makedama, my father, bade the people do the bidding of the king, for
neither he nor the indunas saw his purpose, but I, who knew his wicked
heart, I saw it. 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. It seemed still and
small, yet it came to them faintly like the voice of one speaking from a
mountain-top in a time of snow:--

"Mourn, children of Makedama!"

And all the thousands of the people--