Hadden's first plan was to head for Rorke's Drift, but a glance to the
left showed him that the masses of the Undi barred that way, so he fled
straight on, leaving his path to fortune. In five minutes he was over a
ridge, and there was nothing of the battle to be seen, in ten all
sounds of it had died away, for few guns were fired in the dread race
to Fugitive's Drift, and the assegai makes no noise. In some strange
fashion, even at this moment, the contrast between the dreadful scene of
blood and turmoil that he had left, and the peaceful face of Nature over
which he was passing, came home to his brain vividly. Here birds sang
and cattle grazed; here the sun shone undimmed by the smoke of cannon,
only high up in the blue and silent air long streams of vultures could
be seen winging their way to the Plain of Isandhlwana.
The ground was very rough, and Hadden's horse began to tire. He looked
over his shoulder--there some two hundred yards behind came the Zulu,
grim as Death, unswerving as Fate. He examined the pistol in his belt;
there was but one undischarged cartridge left, all the rest had been
fired and the pouch was empty.
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