“He is a nyaka (a doctor); he is not an Englishman; he is not a Boer; but—”
His memory had failed him, and he had to turn to the missionaries to be prompted.
He caught the word Austrian, and, rising from his seat, stammered out,—
“O-o-stri-en!”
Then, looking round, he smiled as if he had accomplished a prodigious feat.
At this moment a new comer appeared on the scene. A tall boy came in, about fourteen years of age, dressed in a shirt, trousers, waistcoat, and a red woollen cap. He shook hands with the missionaries, as old acquaintances, and laughed at everything that was said, especially when the queen introduced him to me as her “Tholing Beb (darling baby) Sebele.” When he had been with us about half-an-hour he suddenly recollected that he had come to say that tea was ready in the dining-room.
Sechele immediately led the way; we followed him, the queen bringing up the rear. We were all in great good-humour, particularly Tholing Beb and myself, both of us looking forward to partaking (he for the second time that day) of the cakes of the Makoa (white man), which I had not tasted for the last two months. The young prince, however, was not allowed to join us at the round table, but was made to stand aloof, and do all the waiting, an office which he performed very fairly.
The dining-room table was handsome, and covered with a white cloth. Tea was served in cups shaped like little bowls. The king swallowed at least a quart. The sugar-basin, cream-jug, and the rest of the service were placed upon a side-table; they were all of silver, being, as I understood, a present from the merchants who made periodical visits to Molopolole. The tea was good, and the cakes unexceptionable.
There was now a renewal of the conversation that had commenced in the drawing-room, and I was catechised about the proceedings of the English Government in the diamond-fields, and those of the Dutch Government in Pretoria and Bloemfontein. The queen clearly had no interest in these subjects, and gradually resumed the nap which had been interrupted by our arrival. Sechele appeared a little vexed at her breach of etiquette, and attempted to rouse her by some spasmodic coughs, which became more violent at each repetition. Failing, however, to awaken her from her slumber, which every moment grew more sonorous, he stealthily gave her such pushes with his elephantine foot that I had the hardest matter to keep from bursting out laughing.
Controlling myself as well as I could, I said, “Morena, when I was only thirteen years old, I read your name in Nyaka Livingstone’s book. I little thought that I should ever see you and speak to you: far more surprising is it to me to find myself drinking tea in your palace.”