Bakuma rose and fled with the grace of a startled antelope as appeared a tall, strongly built man, having a low-browed face, across which was a deep scar. Behind MYalu came two young slaves bearing a small elephant tusk. Opposite to Marufa the slaves stopped. Their master, careful that his shadow fell well away from the figure of the magician—for the shadow is one of the souls, so woe unto him who shall leave his soul in the hands of an enemy!—squatted gravely.
“Greeting, son of MTungo!”
“Greeting, son of MBusa!” returned Marufa.
Gravely they spat into each other’s palm, the sign of amity as they who exchange bonds of good behaviour inasmuch, as is well known, magic can be worked upon that which has been a part of the body as upon the body itself. Then solemnly they rubbed the spittle upon their respective chests.
“The spirit of the snake nourisheth not the life of the banana.”
“Nay, for nigh unto two moons hath there been no blood of the snake,” returned the old man perfunctorily, as he lifted his eyes from a swift appraisement of the tusk to his favourite mud wall.
“Nay, the crops sprout not. Maybe the Dweller in the Place of the Snake hath been visited by one from the forest.”
“Aye, but old blood runs not as swiftly as young blood.”
“Nay,” replied MYalu, in answer to the reference to himself, “but the girdle is not yet tied by another.”
“When the first twig of the nest is laid,” remarked Marufa, indolently eyeing the tusk, “it is difficult to entice the hen to another tree.”