We went through the rites of purifying after the shedding of human blood, and then there was great feasting and rejoicing; for our losses, which were heavy, were not to be spoken of at such a time, and songs of victory and rejoicing filled the air—not those of death and mourning—for great, indeed, had been our triumph, and we were still a mighty nation.
Death, too, had been busy at Kwa’zingwenya during our struggle for a nation’s life. For it had called to the white isanusi to come over into the Dark Unknown. The stranger was dead. He had been seized with sickness in certain swampy lands, while travelling to outlying kraals to spread his teaching, and had come back to die. And those who were with him say that he died very quickly, and without pain or fear. Now, I thought the King was not over-sorrowful about this; for, although the white doctor was his friend, yet, sooner or later, these two strangers would want to go forth from our midst—which we did not desire. And now both were dead: one on a bed of sickness, the other on the field of blood, as a warrior, making his dying bed of the bodies of those he had slain. Au! It were better so; yet were we sad as we buried the white priest—burying with him, too, all his possessions and articles of clothing and sacrifice, even as he used to wear them, deeming that he would need to make múti where he had gone, even as he had done here. Yes, we were sorry, for he was a good man and a brave man, that white teacher, and although I have seen and heard many since, Nkose, never did I hear any who spoke words quite as did that one.
Meanwhile, there was a thought ever present in my mind, and this was the matter of Lalusini. The King, too, when we were alone together, would, at times, talk strangely on that subject, as though he would read my thoughts; and I, recollecting, wondered if I had rendered Tauane’s last words as darkly as I had intended, or if some inkling of the Bakoni chief’s real meaning had not come back to the Great Great One’s mind. But when things had quieted down after our feasting and rejoicing, the King sent for Lalusini.
“Hail, Black Bull! whose horns are too sharp for the Lion!” was her salute.
“To thee, greeting, whose voice, singing from the air, brings life to the dead hearts of defeated warriors,” answered Umzilikazi. “Tell me now, sister, how was that done?”
“Nay, son of Matyobane,” she said, with a smile and a shake of the head. “That may not be. Sufficient is it that I have from the King’s own mouth that my múti did raise the drooping hearts of the warriors, and thus cause them to triumph over the Lion of the South. Does the word of the King stand?”
Umzilikazi looked disappointed. Yet it was scarcely a fair thing to question a sorceress as to the secrets of her magic; and I, sitting there, hearing her claim the fulfilment of the King’s promise, remembered how I, too, had once done the same, though, then, my case had been, indeed, a most desperate one.
“What, then, dost thou ask, sister?” he said.
“This, Great Great One. I am tired of wandering. I would fain rest within the kraal of the Black Bull, and dwell with this nation forever.”
“That is granted, daughter of the Mighty,” said the King.