“And who might old ‘Click’-ubani be?” asked Clare.
“He’s a thundering big Matabele witch-doctor. Fancy the old boy rolling up to see the fun. Wonder they let him in.”
“It was thanks to you, Driffield,” said a man who was within earshot. “He was asking for you. Told them at the gate that you and Lamont had invited him to come.”
“Then he told a whacking big lie, at any rate as far as I am concerned. Well, I suppose I must go and talk to him, and incidentally stand him something. In my line it’s everything to be well in with influential natives.”
“Can’t you bring him here, Mr Driffield?” asked Clare. “I’d like to talk to a Matabele chief—didn’t you say he was a chief?”
“No; a witch-doctor, who, in his way, is often just as big a pot as a chief—sometimes a bigger. You’d better come over with me and talk to him, Miss Vidal; then, when you’ve had enough of him, you can go away, whereas if I bring him here he may stick on for ever.”
Old Qubani, who was squatting against the enclosure talking to a roughish-looking white man, rose to his feet as he saw Driffield, and with hand uplifted poured forth lavish sibongo. Then he turned to Clare.
“Nkosazana! Uhle! Amehlo kwezulu! Wou! Sipazi-pazi!”
“What does he say?” she asked.
“He hails you as a princess, says that you are beautiful, and have eyes like the heavens—and that you are dazzling. That’s why he put his hand over his eyes and looked down.”