“Truly.”
“Then I tell thee that this is not done by magic.”
“Ehh! Ehh!” chorused the twain.
“This thing on the end of this thing which you call a magic fire twig is made of—of—is made of several kinds of—of earth found in the—earth, and when[—]and when——” He sought frantically for native words which were not, “the two are brought together—as one strikes a spear——” Birnier hesitated, finding himself as perplexed as a psychologist endeavouring to explain the abstract working of consciousness in concrete words. “When one strikes a spear upon a rock there is an eye of fire, is it not so?”
Mungongo’s eyes dimly reflected a growing horror. Bakuma stared.
“The magic of Bakahenzie,” murmured Mungongo.
“Already is his soul bewitched,” muttered Bakuma.
“Is it not so?” persisted Birnier.
“Aye,” admitted Mungongo, moving uneasily and speaking as if humouring a dangerous lunatic. “It is the eye of the angry spirit of the rock.”
Birnier saw his danger and made another effort.