“That will not be, my father. The chain is now forged, even as these blades. And the whites are scattered—scattered. They lie in our hands.”
“Let them not lie there too long, or perchance they may spring out,” returned Malemba quizzically. “Well, I have nought to do with it, I who am old. I can but make you the weapons, it is for yourselves to wield them. And most of you have never learned the art. You were born too late.”
A laugh went up at this. The old assegai-maker was looked upon with the greatest veneration. His wisdom was recognised and appreciated. But to these young bloods, fed up of late on conspiracy, and yearning to prove themselves worthy of their warrior ancestors, mere wisdom was at a slump just then.
“I can but make you assegais,” repeated the old man. “I am too old to wield them.”
And he resumed his work, crooning, to the strokes of the hammer, a snatch from an old war-song—
“Nantsi ’ndaba—
Indaba yemkonto!
Ji-jji! Ji-jji!”
(“That is the talk. The talk of the assegais.” “Ji-jji” is the stabbing hiss.)
“These whites, they are not so powerful as we are told,” said one of the group. “I have been among them—have worked for them, where they dig the gold, the gold that is turned into round money that makes them rich—and us. Whau! They will do anything for money! Ha!”
An evil laugh went round among his listeners.
“Their women,” echoed another. “When ‘the word’ goes forth we shall take their women, when the rest are dead. It will make a pleasant change.”