But the foremost pulled up short, then the rest. The rush subsided into a walk.
“Whau! It is Kulondeka!”
No weapon had been presented, or even significantly handled. No change had come over the imperturbability of the horseman. It was only the name, the mesmerism, so to say, of the personality. That was all.
“I see you,” was the answer. “But I did not come to see you.” And the speaker rode unconcernedly on.
The crowd, who had now stoned and beaten off the dogs, fell in behind, talking in an undertone among itself. From every additional kraal passed, others came forth to swell it, at first aggressively hostile in attitude, then more subdued, but always sullen. In fact, Greenoak remarked that the prevailing attitude was that of sullenness.
“The grass is green and abundant. There should be good pasture for the cattle here now,” he remarked over his shoulder to the foremost. “There will be plenty of fatness and milk this season.”
A deep-toned murmur, in which he was quick to detect a covert sneer, greeted his words.
“Ewa—Ewa! Plenty of fatness this season, Kulondeka,” answered several voices. And the same unmistakable sneer underlay the words.
“Turn back, Kulondeka,” now said one, a man who seemed to be in some authority, as he came up along side of the horseman. “We do not want any white people about here now. The chief is tired of them.”
“The chief! But it is not the chief I am going to see, Mafutana. It is his son.”