“Woman or spirit, I will not shoot, King,” I answered.
“Is it so? What! do you defy me, White Man? Do so if you will, but learn that then your bones shall whiten here in this Vale of Bones. Yes, you shall be the first of the English to go below,” and turning, he whispered something to two of the Councillors.
Now I saw that I must either obey or die. For a moment my mind grew confused in face of this awful alternative. I did not believe that I saw a spirit. I believed that what stood above me was Nombé cunningly tricked out with some native pigments which at that distance and in that light made her look like a white woman. For oddly enough at that time the truth did not occur to me, perhaps because I was too surprised. Well, if it were Nombé, she deserved to be shot for playing such a trick, and what is more her death, by revealing the fraud of Zikali, would perhaps avert a great war. But then why did he make the suggestion that I should be commanded to fire at this figure? Slowly I drew out my pistol and brought it to the full cock, for it was loaded.
“I will obey, King,” I said, “to save myself from being murdered. But on your head be all that may follow from this deed.”
Then it was for the first time that a new idea struck me so clearly that I believe it was conveyed direct from Zikali’s brain to my own. I might shoot, but there was no need for me to hit. After that everything grew plain.
“King,” I said, “if yonder be a mortal, she is about to die. Only a spirit can escape my aim. Watch now the centre of her forehead, for there the bullet will strike!”
I lifted the pistol and appeared to cover the figure with much care. As I did so, even from that distance I thought I saw a look of terror in its eyes. Then I fired, with a little jerk of the wrist sending the ball a good yard above her head.
“She is unharmed,” cried a voice. “Macumazahn missed her.”
“Macumazahn does not miss,” I replied loftily. “If that at which he aimed is unharmed, it is because it cannot be hit.”
“O-ho-o!” laughed Zikali, “the White Man who does not know the taste of his own love’s lips, says that he has fired at that which cannot be hit. Let him try again. No, let him choose another target. The Spirit is the Spirit, but he who summoned her may still be a cheat. There is another bullet in your little gun, White Man; see if it can pierce the heart of Zikali, that the King and Council may learn whether he be a true prophet, the greatest of all the prophets that ever was, or whether he be but a common cheat.”