“Do with him what you will.”
Immediately the firm grasp of many hands was upon him, and Claverton felt that his time had now come.
“Wait!” he cried, in a ringing voice. “Wait—I have a message for the Great Chief.”
His guards paused awe-stricken. A red flash darted into their midst, and loud rolled the thunderpeal immediately overhead. With a swift glance upward the prisoner continued:
“Hear me now, Sandili. My magic is greater than that of your most redoubted wizards. Who stood unseen at Nomadudwana’s side in the spirit cave in Sefele’s cliff and laughed?—I did. Who was wafted safely down yonder tremendous height and walked forth unhurt?—Ask the spirit of Nxabahlana, and the men who saw me. This is your sentence. Your tribe shall soon be driven from this land, which the English shall enjoy in its place. Your sons, Matanzima and Gonya there, shall work in chains for the English for many long years—the best years of their lives—shall slave beneath the hot sun with common convicts, driven like oxen by their taskmasters. And you, yourself,” he went on, speaking slowly and solemnly, as with outstretched hand he pointed at the savage chieftain, “you, Sandili—the Great Chief of the House of Gaika—before six moons are dead, you shall meet a dog’s death at the hand of a Fingo ‘dog,’ and the chieftainship of the House of Gaika shall become in you a thing of the past. This is my ‘word’ to you, Sandili, and to all present.”
Nothing but the speaker’s reputation as a wizard, who had made his magic felt, would have obtained for him a hearing. His listeners were obviously impressed. There was a moment of silence.
“Whaow!” suddenly exclaimed the Kafirs standing around. “Listen to the white man! He dares to revile the Great Chief!”
The countenance of the old chief became gloomy and troubled as Claverton finished speaking. Then again he raised his hand in fatal gesture.
“Do with him what you will.”
What is that frightful crash as if the earth were split in twain, rent by an indescribably terrible blow? What is that dazzling, steely glare, all blue and plum-coloured and liquid in its blinding incandescence? There is a smell of burning in the air, in spite of the rush of deluging rain slanting down like waterspouts on to the earth. Chief, councillors, captive, populace, can hardly see each other as they raise their heads, which they have bent, appalled beneath the crashing thunder-note of heaven. The blinding flood pours down upon them, lashing up the ground into a very torrent of liquid mud, as again that frightful peal shakes the earth, and the gleam of a fiery sea is in their eyes. No other thought have they for the moment than that of refuge from the fury of the storm. The prisoner is dragged into a hut, and, in a moment, not a single human form is to be seen in the open, while the terrific thunderclaps peal forth, and the lightning gleams blue upon the rush of water now flowing several inches deep over the soaked ashes of the fire which, but for this timely interference, would even now be devouring Claverton’s limbs.