“Does the white chief disbelieve in the charm cast on the dead Amatonga?” asked Masheesh, as though such disbelief were monstrous.
“Can the Matabele warrior assert it as his own faith? Is he credulous, like an Amatonga?” asked Wyzinski in reply.
“How does the white man account for Sgalam’s death?”
“The chief Umhleswa knows the use and the value of the English rifle; he sees the great power it would give him and his tribe. By our death he would have gained nothing, save two or three rifles. No white traders would have come near him, and his end and aim would have been frustrated.”
“Mozelkatse’s vengeance would have found him out,” interpolated the Matabele.
“True; but Sgalam took another view of the matter, and threatened the anger of the chief of Manica. Hence the midnight meeting in our hut, and the death of Sgalam, hence the decision of the sorcerer Koomalayoo and Luji’s persecution. Some one killed Sgalam, and some one must answer for it.”
“So the white chief thinks Umhleswa cast the spell?”
“No, Matabele, no,” answered the missionary, “it was a potent poison which did the work; and Umhleswa had everything to gain by the death, Luji had nothing.”
Masheesh turned away incredulous, not even taking the trouble to reply.
“It will be impossible, I fear, to save the poor fellow; but we must make the effort, Hughes. You see even this man, belonging to a tribe far superior in education to these Amatongas, perfectly believes that Luji by sorcery caused the chief’s death.”