“Who wore the royal kaross?” asked Dingaan, eagerly; and both looked up, waiting on my words.
“The Prince Umhlangana wore it—in the dream of Chaka—O Dingaan, shoot of a royal stock!” I answered slowly, taking snuff as I spoke, and watching the two of them over the edge of my snuff-spoon.
Now Dingaan scowled heavily at Umhlangana; but the face of Umhlangana was as the morning sky.
“Chaka dreamed this also,” I went on: “that one of you, the princes, held his royal spear.”
“Who held the royal spear?” asked Umhlangana.
“The Prince Dingaan held it—in the dream of Chaka—O Umhlangana, sprung from the root of kings!—and it dripped blood.”
Now the face of Umhlangana grew dark as night, but that of Dingaan brightened like the dawn.
“Chaka dreamed this also: that I, Mopo, your dog, who am not worthy to be mentioned with such names, came up and gave the royal salute, even the Bayéte.”
“To whom didst thou give the Bayéte, O Mopo, son of Makedama?” asked both of the princes as with one breath, waiting on my words.
“I gave it to both of you, O twin stars of the morning, princes of the Zulu—in the dream of Chaka I gave it to both of you.”