“Then he will move,” was an objection raised. “How then will they think him dead?”
“He will not move. The múti here is such that he will not move, although he will know and feel.” And the black little demon contemplated lovingly a sort of lancet that he had drawn from a wooden sheath. The keen point was encrusted with something. Grim heads craned eagerly forward to examine the thing. Whau! the múti of Gingamanzi was wonderful, wonderful, declared his satellites sycophantically.
“Then, when they think him dead, we will take him away to the right place, and revive him again. Whau! Umlimo will laugh, spending days and nights listening to his shrieks and groans. This big strong Makiwa, this leader of impis, he shall weep and whine like a woman or a dog under that which we shall make him suffer, and that for days. Come, we will go and see him, and it may be now I shall touch him with the múti point.”
With a hum of ferocious anticipation the group arose. These undersized, lean Makalaka, who led the superstitions of the superior race, made up for their lack of physical prowess in the field by a love of cruelty at home, and woe betide him who should be handed over to their tender mercies. That one they reckoned ought so to be, and hoped would be, we have gleaned from the above conversation—and this one a white man.
They made their way to a great block of boulders, the piling of which formed a spacious natural cave. In this several Matabele warriors were lounging, some cooking food at a fire near the entrance. By the fitful red light of the flickering flames another recumbent form could be made out at the far extremity of the place. As the sorcerers would have entered, several of the warriors sprang to their feet, and barred passage.
“Give way; give way,” ordered Gingamanzi curtly. “We would see the Makiwa.”
“That may not be, Umtwana Mlimo,” came the ready reply. “He has said it—our father—that none may approach the Makiwa.”
“But another he—who is greater still—has said that his servants may. How is that, Umfane?”
“Whau! ‘Umfane!’ I Umfane—I, who wear the ring!” And the tall warrior scowled down upon the puny representative of an inferior race.
“Umfane or not, thou art going into battle again soon,” returned Gingamanzi. “But it will be thy last. Not through death—that were easy—but a warrior who has lost the use of his legs, and has to walk on his hands like a dog—why, he had better be dead. But dead or not he has fought in his last battle. How sayest thou?”