1888.
April 14.
Undussuma. "Shall Mazamboni be a son of 'Bula Matari?'"
"He shall."
"Shall there be true peace between us and the strangers?"
"Yea," came in an emotional shout from the mass.
Then the mutual right hands of my son, Mr. Jephson, who volunteered to be sacrificed, were clasped crosswise over the crossed knees, the native Professor of Medicine made a slight incision in his arm until the red blood dyed it. My Professor of Secret Ritualism caused the dark red blood of Mazamboni to well out of the vein, and as the liquid of life flowed and dropped over the knees, the incantations were commenced by the sage with the white beard, and as he shook the pebbles in the magic gourd at the range of the peak opposite, and at the horse-shoe range yonder in the plains, and to eastward and westward of the valley, he delivered his terrible curses from the summit of Nzera-Kum, and all men listened unto him with open lips:—
"Cursed is he who breaks his plighted vow.
"Cursed is he who nourisheth secret hate.
"Cursed is he who turneth his back against his friend.
"Cursed is he who in the day of war denieth his brother.
"Cursed is he who deviseth evil to his friend whose blood has become one with his own.