“Roll over, Macumazahn,” Indaba-zimbi hissed in my ear, “roll over and pretend to die—quick! quick!”
I lost no time in following these strange instructions, but falling on to my side, threw my arms wide, kicked my legs about, and died as artistically as I could. Presently I gave a stage shiver and lay still.
“See!” said the Zulus, “he is dead, the Spirit is dead. Look at the blood upon the assegai!”
“Stand back! stand back!” cried Indaba-zimbi, “or the ghost will haunt you. Yes, he is dead, and now I will call him back to life again. Look!” and putting down his hand, he plucked the spear from wherever it was fixed, and held it aloft. “The spear is red, is it not? Watch, men, watch! it grows white!”
“Yes, it grows white,” they said. “Ou! it grows white.”
“It grows white because the blood returns to whence it came,” said Indaba-zimbi. “Now, great Spirit, hear me. Thou art dead, the breath has gone out of thy mouth. Yet hear me and arise. Awake, White Spirit, awake and show thy power. Awake! arise unhurt!”
I began to respond cheerfully to this imposing invocation.
“Not so fast, Macumazahn,” whispered Indaba-zimbi.
I took the hint, and first held up my arm, then lifted my head and let it fall again.
“He lives! by the head of T’Chaka he lives!” roared the soldiers, stricken with mortal fear.