“He said that, very many years before, in the time of the late king, the village had been one day thrown into a state of great excitement by the advent of a stranger. This had been Mwezi, at the time a man of middle age. He had come from the south and west—from Central Africa, that is—and he had said that he was seeking a white man whom it had been shown him he should find in that village. Pressed for details, he announced that he had come from a town far away by a wide river where there were great falls over whose rocks the water thundered night and day in a perpetual cloud of spray. One night he had awakened in his hut, and had seen a white man standing before him dressed in a black robe, a string of beads, and carrying a book. Behind the white man he could see, as it were, the vision of a town, a river, a precipice—in short, what he now saw to have been Mtakatifuni. The figure had beckoned him solemnly, and he had sat up in his bed in fear. It had beckoned again, and had then pointed north and east, and at that the vision had died away before the startled sleeper’s eyes. But Mwezi understood. In his mind there had been no question as to what he must do. In the dawn he had risen, said good-bye to his wife and family, and set out. For two years he had journeyed, wandering from place to place, scarcely knowing whither he went save that it was always north and east. The very wild beasts had respected him, and men, seeing the vision in his eyes, had withheld their hands from him. At length, then, he had reached Mtakatifuni. There, as always, he had inquired for his white man, and, hearing that no white man had ever been there but convinced that it was the place of his dream, he sat down to wait. He had grown old waiting; had married, and had begotten sons and daughters. Now he was too old to move; all but too old to live; but still he waited. Still he believed he would see his white man again before he died; indeed, he could not die until he had seen. My coming had seemed to the whole place the fulfilment of his vision, but I was not the man. Mwezi was sure of that and no one doubted him. And maybe, now, added the councillor, he would never see him. That was all.
“Now I had been long enough in Africa to set little store by native dreams as a rule. The affair, then, seemed to me pathetic rather than interesting.
“My eyes kept straying to the old fellow while the story was being told me, and I marvelled to think of the simplicity of his faith, the weariness of his journey into the unknown, and the tenacity with which he had clung to his obsession. That this man should have given his whole life to such a quest, and should now be so bitterly disappointed when a remote chance had brought it nearer realisation than had been in the least degree likely, was indeed certainly cruel. I therefore turned to him to make what amends I could.
“‘But, old Mwezi,’ I said as kindly as possible, ‘doubtless you are mistaken. It was but once that you saw the figure in your dream, and that years ago. You dreamt of a white man dressed as I. Well, I belong to a regiment of white men who dress alike, and for many lives it has been the custom of that regiment to dress so. Doubtless as a boy you had seen one of my brethren, or perchance a picture of one, and your spirit saw him again in a dream. If I am right, and your home is on that great river which we white men call the Zambesi, then it is not unlikely that such a thing happened. Perhaps you have forgotten. Now in me you see him whom you seek.’
“The old fellow’s keen eyes flashed angrily. ‘The white stranger mocks me,’ he said.
“I protested. ‘No, father, I do not mean to mock you. Why should I do so? But come now, can you describe the face of the man you saw?’
“‘I can, and easily. His beard was white and not as thine. Moreover, he was bald-headed, and beneath his right eye was there a little scar such as he had perhaps received in the hunt from some beast or the other. His face was long and thin, and his nose bigger. Am I a child that I should not know one man from another? Thou art not he.’
“It was foolish of me, but I was surprised out of all caution. ‘How could you see so much in the dark of your hut?’ I exclaimed.
“Mwezi rose to his feet and made a pathetic effort to hold his head erect. With true native dignity, he ignored me and turned to the chief. ‘With the leave of the chief, I go,’ he said. ‘I am old and would rest in my place. Fare thee well, father of thy people. The Heavens guard thee. Be in peace.’
“I realised that I had blundered, but at the moment there was nothing to do. We watched the procession move away again almost in silence, and I noticed curiously that the crowd were even more interested in Mwezi than in myself, a white stranger. When he was out of sight, I apologised to the chief, who, however, would not hear that I had done any wrong. He himself showed me back to the house set apart for us and invited me to feast with him in the evening. He gave me leave to speak to his people, and I remember that I was so dog-tired that I lay down at once and slept for the rest of the day.