d and plume; the _indunas_ pass on the orders to the
captains, and at once the so-called dance begins. First they manoeuvre
a little in absolute silence, and changing their position with wonderful
precision and rapidity; but as their blood warms there comes a sound as
of the hissing of ten thousand snakes, and they charge and charge again.
A pause, and the company of "greys" on our right, throwing itself into
open order, flits past us like so many vultures to precipitate itself
with a wild, whistling cry on an opposing body which rushed to meet
it. They join issue, they grapple; on them swoops another company, then
another and another, until nothing is to be distinguished except a mass
of wild faces heaving; of changing forms rolling and writhing, twisting
and turning, and, to all appearances, killing and being killed, whilst
the whole air is pervaded with a shrill, savage sibillation. It is not
always the same cry; now it is the snorting of a troop of buffaloes, now
the shriek of the eagle as he seizes his prey, anon the terrible cry
of the "night-prowler," the lion, and now--more thrilling than all--the
piercing wail of a woman. But whatever the cry, the cadence rises and
falls in perfect time and unanimity; no two mix with one another so as
to mar the effect of each.

Again the combatants draw back and pause, and then forth from the ranks
springs a chosen warrior, and hurls himself on an imaginary foe. He
darts hither and thither with wild activity, he bounds five feet into
the air like a panther, he twists through the grass like a snake, and,
finally, making a tremendous effort, he seems to slay his airy opponent,
and sinks exhausted to the ground. The onlookers mark their approval
or disapproval of the dancer's feats by the rising and falling of the
strange whistling noise which, without the slightest apparent movement
of face or lip, issues from each mouth. Warrior after warrior comes
forth in turn from the ranks and does battle with his invisible foe, and
receives his meed of applause. The last warrior to spring forward with a
wild yell is the future chief, Pagadi's son and successor, our friend
of yesterday. He stands, with his shield in one hand and his lifted
battle-axe--borne by him alone--in the other, looking proudly around,
and rattling his lion-claw necklets, whilst from every side bursts forth
a storm of sibillating applause, not from the soldiers only, but from
the old men, women, and children. Through a