“It may not be; send Umhleswa arms for his tribe; make him powerful enough not to heed the anger of the chief of Manica, and the fallen huts are the white men’s. Do they know that death has been pronounced against them, and do they know the kind of death they must meet?”
“It matters not what,” replied the missionary; “we have faced it too often to fear it in any form.”
“Death!” hissed out the savage, his eyes gleaming, and his white teeth shown in the half light, “by fire,—slow, but sure death. Will the white chiefs promise?”
“We promise,” replied the missionary.
“Will they pay a ransom?” continued the savage.
“We have nothing to give; but we will return with presents.”
The chief pointed to the rifles and pistols.
“Umhleswa would gladly have these, and when the white men return with more, he will take them also.”
“They shall be yours, chief, when we cross the frontier, not before.”
“Will the God of the white man send rain when his children ask for it?” he inquired.