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Shortly afterwards Sololo asked the visitor point blank “Where he was thinking of.” This was an unusual thing to do under the circumstances, such a question to a visitor being held amongst natives to be discourteous and suggestive of inhospitality.

Vooda replied to the effect that he had an important matter to discuss with the Chief, and asked Sololo to grant him a private interview.

Now Sololo, having had experience of Vooda’s persuasive tongue and knack of casuistry, did not wish to argue the point–knowing, as he did full well, the object of Vooda’s visit–and at once made up his mind that he would not see the glib-tongued constable alone.

“Son of my father,” he said, “what you have to say, let it be said before these my councilors and friends.”

Vooda saw there was no chance of a private discussion, and determined therefore to play his game boldly and in public. The dusk of evening was just setting in, and some women had kindled a bright fire.

“My Chief,” he said, “I come with the words of Indabeni, who has chosen me because he knows I am your younger brother” (figurative).

“Indabeni is a great man,” said Sololo; “he has eyes all round his head. His words are good to hear–speak them, son of my father.”

“Indabeni’s heart is heavy, my Chief, because you, the leopard, are placing yourself in the path of the buffalo, which is the Government. Men have told Indabeni that you refuse to deliver to the Magistrate one who has done wrong.”

“The leopard may stand on one side and tear the flank of the buffalo as he passes. He may then hide in the caves of the rocks where the buffalo cannot follow,” said Sololo, sententiously.

“The buffalo may call the wolves to his aid to drive the leopard from his cave,” rejoined Vooda, developing the allegory further; “but why will you not give up the wrong-doer to the magistrate?”

“Why must I give up my friend to be choked with a rope?” said Sololo, excitedly. “He has not slain a white man, but one of my own people. Government must leave him to be punished according to the law of the native. If one of my tribe slays a white man, I will deliver up the slayer.”

“But you know what the Government is, my Chief–it is over all of us. Even Indabeni himself has to do as it tells him.”

“Indabeni is not a Pondo, neither am I Indabeni,” said Sololo, appealing, with a look, to the audience.

“Yebo, Yebo, Ewe–E-hea,” shouted all the men.

“I did not ask Government for its laws,” continued the Chief. “‘U-Sessellodes’ [The native attempt at pronouncing the name of Mr. Cecil Rhodes, Premier of the Cape Colony.] came here and said in a loud voice that we all belonged to him. We were surprised, and could not think or speak. Besides, who listens to the bleating of a goat when an angry bull bellows? Now we have thought and spoken together, and we can also fight; I will never give up my friend to be choked with a rope.”

“E-hea,” shouted the audience.

“My Chief,” said Vooda, “your words are like milk flowing from a great black cow ten days after she has calved, but there is one thing you have not seen, but which I have seen and trembled at.”

“What is this thing that frightens a man who is the father of children?”

“The magic (umtagati) of U-Sessellodes, which he has taught to Indabeni–the terrible magic wherewith he overthrew Lo Bengula and the Matabele.”

“We, also, have our magic,” said Sololo, glancing at Shasha, the war-doctor.

Shasha came forward in a half-crouching attitude, and approached Vooda, who appeared to be very much impressed. The war-doctor’s appearance was startling enough. He was an elderly man of hideous aspect. On his head he wore a high cap of baboon skin. Slung around his neck, waist, elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles were all sorts of extraordinary things–cowrie and tortoise-shells, teeth and claws of various beasts of prey, strips of skin from all kinds of animals, inflated gall bladders, bones, and pieces of wood. In his hand he carried a bag made by cutting the skin of a wild cat around the neck, and then tearing it off the body as one skins an eel. Out of this he drew a long, living, green snake (inusbwa, the boom-slang), which he hung over his shoulder, where it began to coil about, darting out its forked tongue.