I looked at my proposed antagonist, and a single glance into his eyes, aglow with pride and resolution, convinced me that whatever hope I might have cherished regarding Mapela’s supposed desire for my escape from the ordeal to which I was about to be subjected had been utterly misplaced. His cupidity in respect of possible gifts, if indeed he had been animated by any such feeling, had evidently been swamped by his sense of duty to his king, and he had as evidently picked a warrior well calculated, in his opinion, to uphold and maintain the honourable traditions of the Mashona army. ’Mfuni’s every look and movement clearly proclaimed that he regarded himself as the chosen champion of the entire Mashona nation, and that he was fully prepared to lay down his life in the endeavour to uphold its prestige. It was clear that I should have to look well to myself if I desired to see the light of another day.
Moved by a sudden impulse to avoid, if possible, a combat that, however it might end, could be of no possible advantage to me, I turned to the king and said:
“Surely Your Majesty is not in earnest in insisting that I should fight the man in order to demonstrate the way in which the sword that I have given thee should be used? I can show thee all that there is to show, without the slightest need for bloodshed, as thus—permit me!” and I took the sword from the king’s hand, unsheathed it, and, laying the scabbard at the king’s feet, approached ’Mfuni, smiling into the man’s eyes to show him that I meant him no harm.
“Now, ’Mfuni,” said I, as I halted within striking distance of him, “raise thy spear, as though thou wert about to strike it through my heart.”
The man looked doubtfully at me, and then flung a lightning glance of enquiry at the king. But the latter made no sign; therefore, after a moment’s pause, ’Mfuni raised his spear as I had bade him.
“Now,” I continued, in a low voice, intended only for his ear, “when I say ‘Strike’, thrust at me—not too quickly, but just quick enough to make the blow look real. Strike!”
Prompt at the word, the man struck, exactly as I had told him to do; and without the least difficulty I parried the blow, shearing the head of the spear from its haft, and leaving the latter in the astonished savage’s hand.
“You see, O Great One?” I said, stepping back and turning to the king. “The thing is quite simple; a mere turn of the wrist does it—thus,”—and I illustrated my meaning by parrying an imaginary thrust. “The head of your adversary’s spear is shorn off, and he is disarmed and at your mercy, to be slain or not, as you may choose. And that is all there is in it. No need to fight in order to show how the sword should be used.”
The king glowered at me for several seconds in silence. Then, with a scornful laugh, he exclaimed:
“Pah! that was nothing; a boy of six years could have done as much. And ’Mfuni made no effort to slay thee, else thou wouldst not be alive now. I begin to have my doubts of thee, white man. Dost thou desire my death, that thou hast given me a weapon of no use in the time of battle?”