“The word of the chief,” echoed Sikonile, sneeringly savage. “Au! but Matanzima is not a chief. He is the son of the Great Chief, but he is a boy.”
“Yet he is the one to whom all these look up,” put in another. “The time to take vengeance was not yet.”
“Not yet? But will it ever be?” cried Sikonile, flinging out an arm and glaring around. “You are all afraid of this white man—afraid. Hau!”
The disgust and contempt of his tone, especially as conveyed by the last exclamation, stung them somewhat.
“Kulondeka is no ordinary white man,” said some one, sullenly. “There is that of tagati about him. Many have tried to kill him, and he is still alive. But—where are they?”
“Cowards all! Fools and cowards! They deserved their death,” was the fierce rejoinder.
“Yet, brother,” went on the one who had spoken last, “Kulondeka is here among us alone. It is thy son whom he has killed, but thou hast other sons. Matanzima is no chief—only the child of one. Yonder is his hut, and the white man is here. Now take thy other sons, and go and kill him.”
There was a touch of mockery in the tone. The words were, in fact, a challenge. Sikonile leapt to his feet.
“That will I do!” he blared forth, gesticulating with anger, for he was worked up to a blaze of revengeful exaltation. “That will I do!” And tearing down a bundle of assegais which hung against the side of the hut, he made for the door. But before he could gain it another voice spoke.
“Pause, brother. I have a better plan than that.”