Here by the edge of the river, but
standing a little above it, were the burnt-out ruins of a building that
by its shape had evidently been a church, and near to it other ruins of
a school and of a house which once was the mission-station.
As they approached they heard swelling from within those cracked and
melancholy walls the sound of a fierce, defiant chant which Thomas
guessed must be some ancient Zulu war-song, as indeed it was. It was
a very impressive song, chanted by many people, which informed the
listeners that those who sung it were the King's oxen, born to kill
the King's enemies, and to be killed for the King, and so forth; a
deep-noted, savage song that thrilled the blood, at the first sound of
which the accordion gave a feeble wail and metaphorically expired.
"Isn't that beautiful music, Father. I never heard anything like that
before," exclaimed Tabitha.
Before Thomas could answer, out from the ruined doorway of the Church
issued a band of men--there might have been a hundred of them--clad in
all the magnificent panoply of old-time Zulu warriors, with tall plumes
upon their heads, large shields upon their arms, kilts about their
middles, and fringes of oxtails hanging from their knees and elbows.
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