“Supposing he accepts—which of us shall go?” said Oakley.
“I and Somala, and Kumbelwa,” answered Haviland. “And I think Murâd Ali,” designating a dark sinewy Arab, a blood brother of Somala’s.
“I claim to go instead of him,” said Dr Ahern, quietly, but firmly. “Oakley can remain in command.”
“Very well,” said Haviland. “Will they really be without arms, Somala?”
“They will perhaps have small arms concealed, Sidi. But they will not break faith.”
“Then we will do the same, and on the same terms. Look! Here they come!”
Four men were seen to detach themselves from the group, and advance, one bearing the chief’s terrible standard. When they were near the appointed spot, Haviland and the doctor, followed by Somala and Kumbelwa, also stepped forth.
“Whou!” growled the tall Zulu to himself. “A warrior without arms is like a little child, or an old woman.”
For all that, he had taken the precaution of secreting a formidable knife beneath his mútya. He also carried his great war-shield.
The Arabs stood, coldly impassive, awaiting them. They were stern, grim-looking, middle-aged men—their keen eyes glowing like coals beneath their bushy brows as they exchanged curt salutations. The chief differed not at all from the others in outward aspect: the same spare, muscular frame; the same grim and hawk-like countenance, haughty, impassive; the same turbaned head and flowing white garments. For all the solemn pledge of peace they had exchanged, it was evident that neither party trusted the other overmuch. They had halted a dozen paces apart, and were silently scanning each other. But what seemed to impress the Arabs most, as could be seen by their quick eager glances, was the aspect of Kumbelwa. They gazed upon the towering Zulu with undisguised admiration.