These considerations should, on every ground of reason and self-interest, have ranged old Zisiso on the side of law and order, yet they did not. The South African native is a strangely complex animal, and there are times when it is impossible to tell what line he may or may not adopt, no matter how powerfully self-interest ought to move him in a given direction, and such was the case with this one. Most probably he was actuated by the sheer love of plotting which had characterised his profession from time immemorial; which in fact, was absolutely essential to the keeping-up of its very existence.
“He who comes this night,” went on Nxala, “he who comes this night, will bring back the drinking bowl of him who is gone. He has put another in its place, and when the white doctor sees it, au! he will pronounce that an isanusi of the standing of Zisiso does not know what múti is,” he added quizzically.
“I trust not this dog of Ntwezi’s,” said Nteseni, gruffly. This chief had a strong and heavy face, and though large of frame, unlike most of his rank his size was not due to obesity—the result of a great indulgence in tywala and very little exercise. On the contrary he was a savage of weight and muscle, and would have proved an uncommonly tough customer even to a more than average white man if once they got to close grips.
“Nobody trusts anybody, brother,” murmured the old witch-doctor, pleasantly. “Yet we will hear what he has to say.”
“We will hear,” echoed Babatyana, getting out his snuff-box, and passing it round. Nxala prodded the fire with a stick, and the embers flared up. There was silence as the four sat, taking snuff, the firelight glinting on the shine of their headrings. Suddenly the raucous yaps of a superannuated cur were heard outside.
“Here is the man from Ntwezi’s, brother,” said Babatyana turning to Nxala. “Go out to him or he may be afraid.”
He addressed obeyed. Those within the hut could hear the murmur of deep tones. Then Nxala reappeared, followed by the stranger.
The latter was clad in European attire. As he stooped through the low, arched doorway Nteseni gave the fire a vigorous kick. It flared up anew in a sudden bright light. Nteseni had seen something—a something which he had expected to see.
The newcomer saluted the chiefs, nor was his greeting of old Zisiso any less respectful. The latter handed him snuff—then added humorously:
“Ou! I am old, I am forgetting. Those who are young, and who dwell among the whites, take their gwai in the form of smoke. Here is some, my son,” searching for a bag, “and doubtless thou hast a pipe. Fill it then, and we will talk.”