The old man waved his hand in courtly fashion.
"I am not the sultani," he answered in very bad Swahili; "I am the headman of the sultani."
Kingozi continued to stare at him in the most uncompromising manner. In the meantime the younger man had loosed the thong from his wrist and had placed the stool on a level spot. The prime minister to the sultani arranged his robe preparatory to sitting down.
Kingozi removed his pipe from his lips, and sat erect.
"Stand up!" he commanded sharply. "If you are not the sultani how dare you sit down before me!"
The youth whisked the stool away: the old man covered his discomfiture in a flow of talk. Kingozi listened to him in silence. The visitor concluded his remarks which--as far as they could be understood--were entirely general: and, with a final courtly wave of the hand, turned away. Then Kingozi spoke, abruptly, curtly.
"Have your people bring me eggs," he said, "milk, m'wembe."[[9]]
[[9]: A sort of flour ground from rape seeds.]
The old man, somewhat abashed, made the most dignified retreat possible through the keenly attentive audience of his own people.
Kingozi gazed after him, his blue eyes wide with their peculiar aggressive blank stare. A low hum of conversation swept through the squatting warriors. Those who understood Swahili murmured eagerly to those who did not. These uttered politely the long drawn "A-a-a-a!" of savage interest.