They fell back, looking at each other, and the old Induna lifted his hands. “It is the will of Umkomaas and the headmen in council, O chief.”
“Learn—Sirayo cannot be slain. See these wounds—the blood yet drips from them—these scars; they tell you that Sirayo cannot be slain unless he so wishes.” He let his fierce gaze dwell on them, and his giant form seemed to tower above them. “Let this white man go, and to-night you may do the will of the chief; but if harm befalls my friend, my spirit will return; you will hear your cattle moan in the night, and in the morning they will be dead.”
“Never!” said Hume, who had followed the strange speech without difficulty. “I will not take my life on such terms.”
“Hu-em! my day has passed and the night comes. Of what use is it that we should both die? Take the road to the forest while there is light, and the dread of me will keep these men quiet till I give them the sign.”
“And they will follow me up!”
“What say you? can the white man go? Remember my words: Sirayo living is not to be so feared as Sirayo dead.”
“Ay, he can go; the chief said nothing concerning him.”
“Go, my friend, and when you grow old, see that you have children about you. It is not well to be alone then.”
“I stay with you, chief,” said Hume quietly.
“Is that the last word?”