Zavula, though old, and shorn of much of his tribal dignity, had plenty of the latter left—of a personal character. He did not hurry, and after a space of full five minutes he intimated that the stranger might come in.
A man crept in through the low doorway, and raising his right hand gave the chief sibongo. The latter acknowledged it with a murmur, then for a moment there was silence. The new arrival was a middle-aged ringed man, and though he had described himself as a stranger this was only as a term of humility. As a matter of fact he was one of Zavula’s most influential headmen.
“I see you, Nxala,” said the chief. “And now? What is the news?”
There was ever so faint a twinkle in the speaker’s eyes as he asked the question, ever so ironical a soupçon in his tone.
“My father, things are moving. The news is great, but not to be cried aloud. The people are nearly ready.”
“M-m! Nearly ready? Ready—for what?”
“The people are crying aloud for their father, the Chief of the Amahluzi, but he takes no part in their councils. His voice is not heard.”
“The Chief of the Amahluzi takes no part in the councils of fools,” returned the old man in tones of cold irony, looking through the other.
“Of fools?”
“Of fools—and worse. When children listen no more to the counsel of their fathers then are those children undone.”