“Where is Kuliso? Where is the chief?”
The tone was firm, clear, audible to all. The Kafirs looked at each other.
“Au! That is his house, Umlungase,” (white woman) and the speaker pointed to a large hut standing among a group. “But—it is night.”
“Request him to come forth. I would talk with him,” went on Beryl, speaking fluently in the vernacular, of which I, as I have before mentioned, had by this time picked up a very fair knowledge.
There was hesitation, muttered dissatisfaction, among the men, as we turned and headed straight for the hut they had pointed out, they following a short distance behind. The chief did not care to see visitors at such a time, was the not unnatural burden of their objections.
But just then two Kafirs emerged from one of the huts, and stood in front of us. One of them I recognised, and even were it otherwise the murmur of astonishment and profound deference which greeted his appearance would have been sufficient to identify him. The tall, fine form, the strong, bearded face, the lofty forehead with its air of command, I was not likely to forget. Now the expression of that face was divided between wonder and a scowl of resentment. Then Beryl spoke.
“I see you, Kuliso. What is the news, Kuliso?”
“Whau!” cried the chief, bringing his hand to his mouth in displeased amazement. “What is this? What does it mean?”
“This,” said Beryl, covering him with her revolver. “Walk, Kuliso. Walk in front of me.”
Then indeed the chief’s exclamation of amazement was emphatic, and was echoed by those gathered around. A command—addressed to him! To him—and by a woman! But that unerring revolver covered him, and the skill of this particular woman was known to him—was known to most of those present. There was no escape; and again that word—this time shorter and more crisp—