“M’Rua! M’Rua!” many voices began to cry out.
M’Rua stepped out of the rank and file, but took only three steps forward. He was an aged negro, tall and strongly built, but who evidently had no courage to spare, for his legs trembled so that he had to dig the point of his spear into the ground and to lean on its hilt to keep from falling.
Other warriors followed his example, and dug their spears into the ground, as a sign that they wished to listen peacefully to the tidings of the stranger.
Thereupon Kali declaimed at the top of his voice:
“M’Rua, and you, M’Rua’s people! You have heard that the son of the king of the Wa-himas is talking to you, whose cows cover the mountains around the Basso-Narok as ants cover the carcass of a dead giraffe. And what is Kali, the son of the king of the Wa-himas, saying? He is telling you a great piece of good news, which is that the ‘good Msimu’ has come to your village!”
Then he cried still louder:
“So it is—the good Msimu! Doo!”
From the silence that ensued one could readily guess what a tremendous effect Kali’s words had aroused. The warriors began to separate and then to form in groups; some advanced a few steps through curiosity, whilst others drew back through fear. M’Rua leaned with both hands on his spear, and for a short time perfect silence ensued, followed by a slight whispering through the ranks, and one voice at a time repeated:
“Msimu! Msimu!” and here and there the cries: “Yancig! Yancig!” which expressed admiration and welcome, were to be heard.
But Kali’s voice rose again above the noises and screams.