“And then we’ll be put out of our misery.”
Louder and fiercer grew the shouts; but through it all pierced the thin music, and it, too, came nearer, shrill and despairing—now nearer, until the musician himself appeared at the door—a wild figure tricked out with bones and teeth, feathers, and whisps of hair. He stood there glaring at them a minute like a wild beast; then dashing his reed instrument to the ground with a yell of rage, he grasped a small battle-axe that hung from his waist, and flourishing it about, poured out a flood of denunciation, exactly as the old woman had done.
“Good heavens above,” growled Webster, “to be sworn at by a thing like that.”
There came a wild yell of terror from beyond the walls, a cry several times repeated, there was a rush of many feet, and the triumphant shout of victory from the pursuers.
“Yoh!” said Sirayo, while a sudden light leapt to his eyes.
The musician was also affected. His eyes rolled, his lips foamed, and with a scream he rushed forward.
“Hold!” shouted Sirayo in Zulu.
The man stood with his axe poised and glared at the chief.
“You have lost your familiar, your protecting spirit, the great snake!”
The native gnashed his teeth and howled in his fury: “Killed! They have slain it, and now our nation is doomed; but you who caused this shall not escape.”