But here was another strange thing. The little one’s face wore a blank look. Clearly she did not understand a word of what he was saying. Truly a strange thing! These two white people—the old man and the tiny girl—meeting thus by chance in the midst of our nation, understood not each other’s tongue!
“Speak to her with the tongue of the Amabuna, my father,” said the King.
But of this language the white isanusi had but scant knowledge, and in the end the only tongue with which these two whites could converse was that of the Amazulu. No, Nkose, not as yours was the tongue in which that isanusi spake. It was quicker—far quicker—and accompanied with more movements, like that of ourselves.
“There, my father,” said Umzilikazi. “The little one is of thine own colour. Now begin with her, and teach her about this strange God, which seems to me to be teaching more fitted for her than for us black ones.”
The white man’s face lighted up with joy at this permission, and he poured forth many words of praise for the goodness of the King. And we, too, we echoed the words of bonga with a loud voice. And the little one, she too seemed glad because of those words; and not long after, in the presence of the King, and all who were then at Kwa’zingwenya, the white isanusi performed strange ceremonies over her, of which the principal seemed the sprinkling of water, and declared she was now especially a child of that great God of whom he had spoken. This Umzilikazi was very willing to sanction, for was not the child white—and a girl? But when it came to teaching warriors a belief that peace was better than war—Au! that was a very different matter.
Now I had been kept so busy all this while, attending to the affairs of the King and the nation, that no time had I to visit the mountain of death and her who dwelt in the secret chamber thereof. Yet my mind was ever in flight thither as I beheld its flat top standing out through the haze afar off. Wherefore I resolved, for good or for ill, to journey thither, as though to hunt.
Once well beyond the last outpost of our people I began to run, travelling with a speed worthy the days when I was the King’s chief runner. At length I stood beneath the mountain and began to ascend its slopes, and I sang softly to myself a song of gladness and of love as I thought how soon I should be drinking in the strange sweet sorcery of Lalusini’s words and looks.
I had nearly gained the summit when a loud and savage growl brought me up motionless in my own footprints, and, taking the great Assegai in my right hand and advancing my small shield forward a little in the left, I peered eagerly in search of the enemy.
Not a moment had I to look. The flaming eyes, the long, yellow shape, the shaggy mane, almost blurred up as they were by the brown of the mountain-side, represented nothing less than a lion—an enormous one, crouching for a spring. There was no turning aside. Face to face we had come, in this narrow gully. Neither could give way. One must advance over the body of the other.
Whau, Nkose! This was no light matter; for to kill a full-grown lion, single-handed, with spears only, is a business we never willingly undertake. But this one gave me no choice, for, with a savage snarl, he launched himself into the air.