“Greeting, son of Makedama!” they said. “The king summons you to the Intunkulu”—that is the royal house, my father.
“Good!” I answered. “I will come now; but first I would run to my own place to see how it goes with Macropha, my wife. Here is that which the king seeks,” and I showed them the dead child. “Take it to him if you will.”
“That is not the king’s command, Mopo,” they answered. “His word is that you should stand before him at once.”
Now my heart turned to water in my breast. Kings have many ears. Could he have heard? And how dared I go before the Lion bearing his living child hidden on my back? Yet to waver was to be lost, to show fear was to be lost, to disobey was to be lost.
“Good! I come,” I answered. And we walked to the gate of the Intunkulu.
It was sundown. Chaka was sitting in the little courtyard in front of his hut. I went down on my knees before him and gave the royal salute, Bayéte, and so I stayed.
“Rise, son of Makedama!” he said.
“I cannot rise, Lion of the Zulu,” I answered, “I cannot rise, having royal blood on my hands, till the king has pardoned me.”
“Where is it?” he asked.
I pointed to the mat in my hand.