“Umnovu!”
“Drop your weapons, Amakosi!” whispered a warning voice.
Haviland obeyed, telling Oakley to do the same, for the speaker was Kumbelwa.
The whole vast crowd continued its vociferations. It was evident, too, to the two white spectators that the word was a royal title, or form of salute. Still the roar continued, but nobody appeared. Then the impi struck up a kind of swaying dance. Faster and faster this grew, stimulated by a wild whirling chant. The whole body would prostrate itself, rising as one man, and taking extravagant leaps into the air. At last, when the frenzy had reached its height, and throats were hoarse with bawling, and dusky bodies were streaming with perspiration, the uproar ceased—ceased so suddenly that the dead silence which succeeded was even more startling than the tumult of a second before.
Chapter Twenty Five.
The King.
“Down, Amakosi,” whispered Kumbelwa again. “Down.”
The whole assembly had fallen flat, but our two friends drew the line at that. However, they compromised by dropping into a kind of squatting attitude, and at once the King’s gaze rested upon them.