It was the boldness of desperation. If an attacking force was advancing it might be here at any moment. They were not going forth to hold out their throats to be cut.
There was silence at this answer, save that a few deep voices were vehemently debating in a wholly indistinct undertone. Elvesdon and Thornhill looked around for a weapon, even a stick. There was nothing of the sort within the hut. They even put up their hands and groped among the thatch in the hope of finding concealed assegais—anything for a weapon! Same result. There was nothing.
“The chief would see you, Abelungu,” now called out a voice in more conciliatory tones. “The chief—Au! he would speak with you.”
“Well, I suppose we must chance it,” said Thornhill. Elvesdon nodded. The other, of course, had no say in the matter. The trio passed through the low doorway, and stood upright. What was this? They were in the midst of hundreds of armed warriors. The latter looked dusty and travel soiled. Some, even, had wounds bound up, the blood which had filtered through the filthy rags, browned and hardened upon them.
“Where is the chief?” cried Elvesdon. “As a Government official I talk to no common man.”
A growl arose, and assegai hafts rattled ominously. But the policy of boldness answered here. No aggressive move was made.
“There he is, Abelungu,” said one or two.
They passed between the armed ranks, to where a tall man was standing. He was a sullen, heavy-faced savage, black-bearded, and holding his shining head-ring as proudly thrown back as though he were the Zulu king, at least.
“Greeting Nteseni,” said Thornhill. “It is not long since we met, and now we meet again. I am glad to look upon your face, and having done so, I think now we will go home.”
The chief returned no answer, save for a sullen grunt. The armed men however made up for his silence, for they crowded up, in a kind of war-dancing step, and their clamour was for blood, to make up for the blood that had been shed, to make the múti which should put into those who tasted it the strength that should enable them to avenge that blood. So they howled, and stamped, and clamoured, crying again and again that these should be given over to them. Here was a curious contrast. Little less than half of them had been quiet, civil, peaceable storeboys or rickshaw drawers in the towns until a few months ago—some, even, still wore the decorative horns affected by those pursuing the latter useful calling—ready to greet their present prisoners with smiles and civility; to exchange chaff with them, and to receive the reward of their labours with whole-hearted geniality. Now, as by the wave of a magic wand, they had reverted to their original barbarism. Every vestige of civilised clothing had been discarded, and they now stood forth, naked, bloodthirsty savages, rattling shields and assegais, and thirsting for all the cruelty of barbarian vengeance.