254 
Transactions of the Royal Society of South Africa. 
Spellbound stood his foes 
Listening to the death-marked warrior : 
Off, off he goes, 
Like an arrow from the bow-string, 
Shoots amid the throng, 
As they stand aghast a moment, 
Then raise a song : 
They a song far other-sounding, 
Snarl of cheated beast : 
Start the men, and dart the heavy 
Spears, seeking feast. 
Fast they fly, but he flies faster 
Over field and fell, 
Yet one fleeter than the others, 
With dart so fell, 
Reaches him, all but outracing 
That tremendous shot : 
Reaches and his back transpierces : 
Blood outbursts hot : 
Down it streams, but he pants onward, 
Coughing out red spume, 
Recking not his ebbing vigour, 
Counts but the room 
That he sets between the bloodhounds 
And his flying feet : 
Once he turns — far off they follow, 
Less fleet . . . less fleet . . . 
So he staggers down the burn-bank 
To the water's edge, 
Shelter'd from those grim pursuers, 
Hid in the sedge. 
For a moment he emerges 
On the opposing bank : 
Once again his strength he urges — 
Slow, slow he sank, 
Pouring out his latest blood-stream 
As the warriors came, 
Singing with last breath the praises 
Of his doughty name. 
(Southern Cross, May 1915.) 
