Already my hand was creeping towards the pocket when a new idea, or rather two ideas, struck me.
The first was that if I shot Dingaan the Zulus would probably massacre Marie and the others--Marie, whose sweet face I should never see again.
The second was that while there is life there is hope.

Perhaps, after all, he had not sent for an executioner, but for someone else.

I would wait.

A few minutes more of existence were worth the having.
The shield-bearer returned, emerging from one of the narrow, reed-hedged passages, and after him came no executioner, but a young white man, who, as I knew from the look of him, was English.

He saluted the king by taking off his hat, which I remember was stuck round with black ostrich feathers, then stared at me.
"O Tho-maas" (that is how he pronounced "Thomas"), said Dingaan, "tell me if this boy is one of your brothers, or is he a Boer ?" "The king wants to know if you are Dutch or British," said the white lad, speaking in English.
"As British as you are," I answered.