"Lord, it will be death to me to carry your proud message to our city, for we ourselves are very proud people, and Sakola is a man of greater pride than any."
"The palaver is finished," said Sanders, and the little man descended the wooden steps to the sandy garden path.
He turned, shading his eyes from the strong sun in the way that bushmen have, for these folk live in the solemn half-lights of the woods and do not love the brazen glow of the heavens.
"Lord," he said timidly, "Sakola is a terrible man, and I fear that he will carry his spears to a killing."
Sanders sighed wearily and thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his white jacket.
"Also I will carry my spears to a killing," he said. "O ko! Am I a man of the Ochori that I should fear the chattering of a bushman?"
Still the man hesitated.
He stood balancing a light spear on the palm of his hand, as a man occupied with his thoughts will play with that which is in reach. First he set it twirling, then he spun it deftly with his finger and thumb.
"I am the servant of Sakola," he said simply.
Like a flash of light his thin brown arm swung out, the spear held stiffly.