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We were talking about Rorke's Drift and of Kambúla, in the battles fought at which places these two warriors had borne arms. They were fine, tall, martial-looking Zulus, and both head-ringed. They carried small shields, and a perfect arsenal of assegais—beautifully-made weapons for the most part. With none of these, however, could they be induced to part.“What should you white people want with our poor weapons?” said one. “Have you not much better ones of your own? Where is your gun, Umlúngu?”“Yonder,” I answered, pointing to my wagon, which, far away on the plain beneath, drawn by its span of twelve black Zulu oxen, seemed at that distance to creep along like some great centipede. “But I seldom carry it about, for there is little game in these parts, and a useless gun is much heavier than a stick.”“And a Zulu spear is no heavier than a stick, but more useful,” cut in the other, with a quizzical laugh.Then it took some time to explain that the weapon was wanted, not for use, but for show—in short, as a curio—in process of which explanation a voice from behind sang out—