This time the contempt in the old man’s tone was more cutting than before. The other appreciated it to the full.
“And to the people, father? The people, thy children?”
“The people? Fools—all fools. But to them I have one word—one last word. Let them come here with the rising of to-morrow’s sun and hear it. Fools—because only a fool wants the same word uttered into his ear again and again.”
If it be wondered that during this talk nothing definite was said—no plan propounded—it must be remembered that the colloquial process known as coming straight to the point is an attribute vested in the civilised man. To the savage it is utterly foreign, even abhorrent. These two knew perfectly well what was in each other’s mind. There was no occasion to formulate anything. In matters of moment safety lay that way, a tradition fostered through countless generations. Now Babatyana’s emissary knew that his mission had failed. Babatyana’s chief—the chief of the Amahluzi tribe—was as firm as a rock. Suddenly Nxala’s countenance lit up.
“Whau! The spear! The great spear!” he exclaimed. “That is the spear with which my father met the might of Cetywayo, and slew two warriors. I would fain gaze upon that spear once more.”
Zavula turned his head, following the speaker’s glance. Behind him hung a fine assegai, of the broad-bladed, short-handled Zulu type, which he had wielded with effect at Isandhlwana as leader of the Native Contingent, before he was forced to fly before the weight of numbers. But as he turned his head the hand of Nxala shot out by a quick movement; perhaps two inches, and no more. But Zavula, though old, was not the fool that the other—and, incidentally, the bulk of his people—chose to take him for.
“Ha! The spear?” he answered, in the genial, pleased tones of a veteran invited to enlarge once more on bygone deeds. “It was great, this umkonto, was it not? And now it must be kept bright or it will rust; for there is no more use for it.”
He rose, and turning his back full upon his guest, stood, deliberately taking down the weapon from where it hung behind him. For half a minute he thus stood, gazing lovingly upon it as he held it in his hand. But in a fraction of that half minute the hand of Nxala again shot out till it rested above the chief’s drinking vessel, and as quickly withdrew. The latter sat down again leisurely, the assegai in his hand.
“Yes. It is a great spear,” he went on meditatively, but carefully refraining from handing it to the other. “And there is no more use for it. But—we will drink to its memory.”
He raised the bowl before him. The other watching him, could hardly suppress the gleam of satisfaction which flitted across his face. But it faded in an instant. The bowl dropped from the chief’s hand on to his knees. The liquor gushed forth on to the floor.