The chief had risen, and intimated his intention of proceeding to the waggons. Dawes, recognising the necessity of extreme wariness, offered no further objection. The armed warriors poured into the central space till it was full to overflowing, while others clustered about the outer side of the fence like a swarm of bees.
Ingonyama was graciously pleased to accept a large pannikin of gin-and-water, which, having half emptied, he passed on to his induna Vunawayo. He further relaxed over the gift of some snuff and a few other things of no great value intrinsically. With each present a chorus of thanks burst from the throats of all the spectators. This became a perfect roar as a gaudy umbrella, striped with all the colours of the rainbow, was added to the gifts.
“What is this?” said the chief, now in high good humour, laying his hand on a great tufted tassel-like thing, which protruded from a bale.
“This? A skin. Fine one, isn’t it?” answered Dawes, dragging it forth. And, unrolling it, he spread out the skin of a huge lion. A great shout went up.
“Hau! The thing that roars! the thing that roars!” cried the warriors, in accordance with the strange custom which obliged them to use some other term to express the word which happened to be the name of their chief.
(Ingonyama, means “a lion.”)
Ingonyama’s eyes sparkled.
“Wonderful!” he cried. “Wonderful! It is, indeed, a great skin! Whau!” And spreading it out, he stood contemplating it admiringly, walking around it and every now and then stooping to touch the massive mane, the great tufted tail.
And in fact a fine skin it was, and had been well taken off and preserved—head and claws complete—even the skull, with the jaws and teeth.
“And was it this one hole that let out the life?” said the chief, pointing to a single bullet-hole fair between the eyes. Dawes nodded.