s it so?" he said presently. "Wow! I say again that had it not been
for Saduko, the son of Matiwane, yonder, who had some quarrel with
Indhlovu-ene-Sihlonti about a woman and took his chance of vengeance,
it might have been I who died of a broken heart upon a rock above the
river. Oh, Saduko, I owe you a great debt and will pay you well; but you
shall be no friend of mine, lest we also should chance to quarrel about
a woman, and _I_ should find myself dying of a broken heart on a rock
above a river. O my brother Umbelazi, I mourn for you, my brother, for,
after all, we played together when we were little and loved each other
once, who in the end fought for a toy that is called a throne, since,
as our father said, two bulls cannot live in the same yard, my brother.
Well, you are gone and I remain, yet who knows but that at the last your
lot may be happier than mine. You died of a broken heart, Umbelazi, but
of what shall _I_ die, I wonder?"[*]

[*--That history of Cetewayo's fall and tragic death and of
Zikali's vengeance I hope to write one day, for in these
events also I was destined to play a part.--A. Q.]

I have given this interview in detail, since it was because of it that
the saying went abroad that Umbelazi died of a broken heart.

So in truth he did, for before his spear pierced it his heart was
broken.

Now, seeing that Cetewayo was in one of his soft moods, and that he
seemed to look upon me kindly, though I had fought against him, I
reflected that this would be a good opportunity to ask his leave to
depart. To tell the truth, my nerves were quite shattered with all I had
gone through, and I longed to be away from the sights and sounds of that
terrible battlefield, on and about which so many thousand people had
perished this fateful day, as I had seldom longed for anything before.
But while I was making up my mind as to the best way to approach him,
something happened which caused me to lose my chance.

Hearing a noise behind me, I looked round, to see a stout man arrayed
in a very fine war dress, and waving in one hand a gory spear and in the
other a head-plume of ostrich feathers, who was shouting out:

"Give me audience of the son of the King! I have a song to sing to the
Prince. I have a tale to tell to the conqueror, Cetewayo."

I stared. I rubbed my eyes. It could not be--yes, it was--Umbezi,
"Eater-up-of-Elephants," the father of Mameena. In a few seconds,
without waiting for leav