Again there was silence. Then Zavula raised his voice in a hail. In response two women appeared, and having received an order, returned in a minute or two bearing a large bowl of tywala and two smaller drinking vessels. Into these they poured some of the liquor, which creamed up with a pleasant frothing sound. Then, each having taken the preliminary sip, required by native etiquette, they withdrew.
The headman took a long pull at his beer, and then another. The firelight glowed upon the placid countenance and short white beard of the old chief and upon the shine of the new arrival’s head-ring, and still there was silence. At last the latter spoke.
“The people are tired of the white man’s exactions, my father. They have to pay more and more, and they are tired of it. They wish to hear the voice of their chief.”
“They have heard that voice already, Nxala—not only once nor only twice. They have heard it as foolish, rebellious children. They will hear it no more. But the time is very near when they will wish, through blood and through tears, that they had listened to it.”
An unpleasant look flitted across the crafty face of the headman.
“But they murmur, my father,” he said. “They are saying—‘Lo, our father, Zavula, is old, and he is asleep. But Babatyana is not old, and he is awake.’ So say the people.”
“Whau, Babatyana!”
The infinite contempt in the old man’s tone was quiet and cutting. The evil look deepened in the face of the other. To hide it he took up his drinking vessel again, and drained it. His host at once refilled it from the large bowl, and also his own.
“Has the Chief of the Amahluzi no word for Babatyana?” went on Nxala.
“Whau, Babatyana!”