Next, despite
his howls and struggles, he with one mighty thrust plunged poor
Alphonse head first into the bush, so that nothing but the calves
of his legs and heels remained in evidence. Then, satisfied
with what he had done, the Zulu folded his arms and stood grimly
contemplating the Frenchman's kicks, and listening to his yells,
which were awful.
'What art thou doing?' I said, running up. 'Wouldst thou kill
the man? Pull him out of the bush!'
With a savage grunt he obeyed, seizing the wretched Alphonse
by the ankle, and with a jerk that must have nearly dislocated
it, tearing him out of the heart of the shrub. Never did I see
such a sight as he presented, his clothes half torn off his back,
and bleeding as he was in every direction from the sharp thorns.
There he lay and yelled and rolled, and there was no getting
anything out of him.
At last, however, he got up and, ensconcing himself behind me,
cursed old Umslopogaas by every saint in the calendar, vowing
by the blood of his heroic grandfather that he would poison him,
and 'have his revenge'.
At last I got to the truth of the matter. It appeared that Alphonse
habitually cooked Umslopogaas's porridge, which the latter ate
for breakfast in the corner of the courtyard, just as he would
have done at home in Zululand, from a gourd, and with a wooden
spoon.
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