His face, though aged and shrunken, was fine-featured and full of breeding, while his hands and feet were very small; his eyes were brooding, the eyes of a mystic, but when his interest was excited their glance was as sharp as a bradawl. Just now it was fixed on Thomas, who felt as if it were piercing him through and through. The owner of the eyes, as Thomas guessed at once, was Menzi, a witch-doctor very famous in those parts.
“Why are these men armed with spears? It is against the law for Kaffirs to carry spears,” he said to the Chief.
“This is Portuguese Territory; there is no law in Portuguese Territory,” answered Kosa with a vacant stare.
“Then we might be all murdered here and no notice taken,” exclaimed Thomas.
“Yes, Teacher. Many people have been murdered here: my father was murdered, and I dare say I shall be.”
“Who by?”
Kosa made no answer, but his vacant eyes rested for a little while on Menzi.
“Good God! what a country,” said Thomas to himself, looking at Dorcas who was frightened. Then he turned to meet Menzi, who was advancing towards them.
Casting a glance of contempt at Kosa, of whom he took no further notice, Menzi saluted the new-comers by lifting his hand above his head. Then with the utmost politeness he drew a snuff-box fashioned from the tip of a buffalo-horn out of a slit in the lobe of his left ear, extracted the wooden stopper and offered Thomas some snuff.
“Thank you, but I do not take that nastiness,” said Thomas.