I looked round at Brother John. He had heard something and was utterly overcome. Fortunately enough he could not move or even speak.
“Hold him,” I whispered to Stephen and Mavovo, “while I go in and talk to these ladies.”
Then, handing the rifle to Hans, I took off my hat, pushed the gate a little wider open, slipped through it and called attention to my presence by coughing.
The two women, who had risen from their knees, stared at me as though they saw a ghost.
“Ladies,” I said, bowing, “pray do not be alarmed. You see God Almighty sometimes answers prayers. In short, I am one of—a party—of white people who, with some trouble, have succeeded in getting to this place and—and—would you allow us to call on you?”
Still they stared. At length the elder woman opened her lips.
“Here I am called the Mother of the Holy Flower, and for a stranger to speak with the Mother is death. Also if you are a man, how did you reach us alive?”
“That’s a long story,” I answered cheerfully. “May we come in? We will take the risks, we are accustomed to them and hope to be able to do you a service. I should explain that three of us are white men, two English and one—American.”
“American!” she gasped, “American! What is he like, and how is he named?”
“Oh!” I replied, for my nerve was giving out and I grew confused, “he is oldish, with a white beard, rather like Father Christmas in short, and his Christian name (I didn’t dare to give it all at once) is—er—John, Brother John, we call him. Now I think of it,” I added, “he has some resemblance to your companion there.”