“And you, Mtezani? Do you know?”
“Ou!” bringing a hand to his mouth. “Even that might be, Nkose. But others will not.”
Wyvern eyed him curiously, then led the way back to the camp.
“We shall have to reckon with Inxele about this, Mtezani,” he said. “You have killed his ‘dog.’”
“Hau! and I would kill the dog’s master,” and the savagery blazed up again. “I am a son of Majendwa, Nkose, and a son of Majendwa fears nobody, let alone a white ishinga (a worthless person) such as Inxele Whau, ’Nxele! Xi!”
The contempt expressed was so complete that Wyvern burst out laughing.
“White people like you and U’ Joe, Nkose,” went on the Zulu, “that is one thing, but such as Inxele, that is another! They say you have no king, you Amangisi (English), only a woman for king. If you had a king surely Inxele would have been long since dead.”
Wyvern laughed again at this way of putting things. It was naïve, to say the least of it.
Joe Fleetwood lay restless under several blankets when they reached the camp. The day was blazing hot, but the chills of the dread up-country fever held him in their grip.