“I like not this killing of women, Umtwana ’Mlimo,” he answered. “This woman has never harmed me. I will not kill her.”
“What about Nompiza?” said the small demon, with his head on one side. “Au! thou didst laugh when she splashed into the water-hole in the moonlight.”
“She did harm me, in that she scorned and mocked me. Yet, I liked not that deed either, Shiminya.”
“Yonder dogs, shall we call them and set them on to devour this white witch?” went on the sorcerer. “They are hungry, and she is defenceless. We shall laugh at her face of terror when they attack her on all sides, and then, when they rend her limb from limb—they shall eat white meat for once. Au! It will be a sacrifice pleasing to Umlimo.”
“I never heard of a sacrifice pleasing to Umlimo, or any other Great Great One, that was offered through a dog’s maw, Shiminya,” cried the other, with a great jeer; for too much association had somewhat sapped Nanzicele’s respect for the redoubted magician. The latter, conscious of having made a slip, went on.
“Nompiza scorned thee when thou wouldst take her to wife, Nanzicele. Thou art large and strong, but thou hast no cattle, son of Fondosi, therefore thou hast no wives. Here is one who comes straight to thee. She is white, it is true, yet take her.”
Of all these atrocious suggestions Nidia, standing there, was of course blissfully ignorant. The sun was declining, and she was inwardly growing somewhat impatient. Would they never have finished their indaba? Was it, perhaps, her look of absolute unconsciousness, her very helplessness, that appealed to some spark of manliness within the heart of that rough savage, as he replied?
“No, no. I want not such. They are tagati, these white women. The Amakiwa are the wisest people in the world, yet they treat such women as these as though they were gods. I have seen it—yes, I, myself. Look, too, at this woman. She is not afraid. There is a power behind her, and I will not offer her violence.”
Then the abominable wizard deemed it time to throw his trump card.
“Where is she going? To Sikumbutana,” he said, lapsing into a professional oracularism. “To whom is she going? To Jonémi. Nanzicele was a chief in the Amapolise, but he is not now. Why not? Ask Jonémi. This woman knows Jonémi—belongs to him, it may be; perhaps his sister—perhaps his wife. Jonémi was in our power, but he escaped from us. This woman is in our power; shall we let her go?”