“And—for Umlimo?”
“There is a young heifer.”
“Au! Of such there will soon be no more,” replied Shiminya.
“No more?” echoed the trio.
“No more. The whites are bewitching all the cattle in the land. Soon you will see great things. The land will stink with their rotting carcases.”
A murmur went up from the three listeners. They all bent eagerly forward. Shiminya, who knew his dupes, was in no hurry. He continued to shake his bowl of abomination and mutter; then he went on:
“The last time you heard the Great Voice, what did it say? Were not the words thereof as mine are now—I, its child? Whau! I fear there were some who heard that voice and laughed, Izinduna—who heard that voice and did not believe.”
At this juncture there came a subdued wail, inexpressibly doleful, from one of the huts. It was answered by a snarl from another. Two of the three chiefs, listening, felt perturbed, the countenance of Zazwe alone preserving its hard, sceptical expression; though, to tell the truth, even he—so rooted is the innate superstition of savages—did not feel entirely at ease in his surroundings.
“There is, further, a good milch cow for the Umlimo,” spake Madúla, “and for his child a heifer.”
“It is well. There will soon be no more,” repeated the wizard.