“No. It got away into a crack. Daresay it’s there yet.”
“Ah well, I am glad we are not going to sleep in the same hut again to-night.”
Lamont chuckled to himself as he thought of what momentous issues of life and death would hang—were hanging—upon the incident. Looking round upon the great kraal, its dark inhabitants going about their peaceful avocations in the newly risen sun, he could hardly realise that the events of the night had been other than a bad dream. The first thing he had done on coming forth had been to glance eagerly at the ground. No. The hard and parched soil showed no footprints. He had grumbled the previous evening because the storm had brought no rain, but since then he had had abundant reason to be thankful for the fact; otherwise the marks of shod footprints, leading to and from the place of conspiracy, would tell their own tale. He had mentioned nothing to his travelling companion of what had happened—judging it better not. Then, as time wore on, Lamont was getting anxious. They would have to saddle up directly, and the witch-doctor had not appeared. It was absolutely essential that he should be able to identify him; and as yet he was unfamiliar with his outward aspect.
“Nkose!”
He turned at the salute. An elderly, thick-set native had approached, and as he stood, with hand uplifted, Lamont supposed it was one of the plotting chiefs. His head, too, was surmounted by the small Matabele ring.
“I see you, father,” he answered. “Am I speaking to a chief?”
A flash of mirth shot into the other’s eyes, and he simply bubbled with glee.
“A chief! Ha! I am Qubani, Nkose.”
“The great isanusi! Then you are indeed a chief, my father—the chief of all izanusi.”
The other beamed. Then putting forth his hand, he asked for tobacco, which was given him.