“Look at Masheesh, whom you called an uneducated savage this morning,” replied Wyzinski, pointing towards the individual named, who after a drink of water had quietly seated himself, not even noticing the runner of his people, and was smoking, varying the amusement with an occasional pinch of snuff, and waiting calmly until some meat should be cooked by some one, he cared not by whom, provided he had nothing to do with it.
“Well, I suppose you don’t want me to smoke and take snuff as proofs of civilisation.”
“You have heard of the man, have you not, who thanked God he had at least reached a civilised country on seeing a gibbet? However,” continued Wyzinski, “yonder runner brings us an invitation from Mozelkatse, to join a great hunt in which the tribe is taking part on the banks of the Limpopo.”
“That will be worth seeing. And when is it to take place?” asked Hughes, forgetting hunger and fatigue.
“To-morrow.”
“Accept it, by all manner of means.”
Masheesh was interrupted in the tobacco-smoking process. The runner, who since his arrival in camp, had been gorging himself with meat, was sent back; great steaks and collops of venison cut from the hartebeest were grilling on the clear wood fire, and soon the howling of the hyenas, as they tore the bones of what had been left behind of the two gnus, as not worth bringing away, were the only sounds which disturbed the quiet of the little camp on the banks of the Limpopo.
Early morning saw the whole party afoot.
“Had we not better send Luji back to the tent?” said Hughes, as the morning light becoming clearer, they looked back from the crest of a rise, and saw it shining in the early sunbeams.
“We shall need him as an interpreter, perhaps. I can just manage, and that is all, to be understood,” replied Wyzinski; “everything is safe. Noti will keep a look-out.”