“Allan Quatermain. Tell Zikali, whoever he may be, that if he sticks to his advice I will give him a good present.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Dingaan suspiciously.
“He says he is English, no Boer, O king; that he was born across the Black Water, and that he comes from the country out of which all the Boers have trekked.”
At this intelligence Dingaan pricked up his ears.
“Then he can tell me about these Boers,” he said, “and what they are after, or could if he were able to speak my tongue. I do not trust you to interpret, you Tho-maas, whom I know to be a liar,” and he glowered at Halstead.
“I can speak your tongue, though not very well, O king,” I interrupted, “and I can tell you all about the Boers, for I have lived among them.”
“Ow!” said Dingaan, intensely interested. “But perhaps you are also a liar. Or are you a praying man, like that fool yonder, who is named Oweena?”—he meant the missionary Mr. Owen—“whom I spare because it is not lucky to kill one who is mad, although he tries to frighten my soldiers with tales of a fire into which they will go after they are dead. As though it matters what happens to them after they are dead!” he added reflectively, taking a pinch of snuff.
“I am no liar,” I answered. “What have I to lie about?”
“You would lie to save your own life, for all white men are cowards; not like the Zulus, who love to die for their king. But how are you named?”
“Your people call me Macumazahn.”