“The charm—where is the charm?”
Where, indeed? They looked around—on the ground—in the fire—everywhere. In vain. Of the steel locket there was no sign. It had completely disappeared.
But the wonder and speculation of the superstitions savages was nipped in the bud by a mandate from Sandili that the prisoner should again be brought before him.
And now, once more, Claverton stood before that semicircle of dark, stern countenances, but he read no hope. They were about to doom him to torture and to death. Around pressed the crowd, eager, expectant, the women and children jostling against the warriors in front, struggling to obtain a view of the proceedings. Every now and then a red flash of lightning played upon the half-naked figures of the barbarians, and upon assegai points, and rolling eyeballs, and necklaces of jackals’ white teeth and all the savage paraphernalia wherewith the fierce, lithe forms were decked.
A silence was upon all as the wizard stood, looking like a figure conjured up from hell, haranguing the assembly. The burden of his speech was a mere repetition of the wrongs they had suffered at the hands of the white men in general, and this one in particular, whom he now claimed on behalf of the nation, in pursuance of unvarying custom. And at his words a shout of assent went up from the fierce crew standing around.
“Give him to us!” they cried. “Give him to us, Great Chief!”
Then Sandili was about to speak, to utter the words of doom, when, in a strong, ringing voice which echoed through that savage fastness like the notes of a clarion, the prisoner cried:
“Stop! I, too, have something to say; listen to it all of you. First of all, who is this Nomadudwana, that claims to direct your councils? I will tell you—”
But he could get no further.
The cunning wizard was too much for him. Raising a series of terrific howls and effectually drowning his voice, and the voices of Usivulele and others, who would fain have allowed him a hearing, Nomadudwana made his way among the people brandishing his “medicine charms,” and crying out that there was a plot on foot to defraud them of their prey—of their lawful vengeance on the white captive—and stirring them up to clamour for him to be delivered over to them. The plan was successful. With one mighty roar every voice was raised besieging the chief with its bloodthirsty demands. Waiting until the tumult had subsided somewhat, Sandili raised his hand, and pointing his finger at the prisoner said, in slow but distinct tones: