'What's his name?' I next asked.
'Umkopo,' said Billy. 'Dat not white man name—dat Matabele name.'
Billy looked so disgusted, and was clearly so displeased that a nigger should put forward a claim to white man's blood, that I decided to worry the sick man no more at present with questions—at least, he should answer only one more.
'How came he here? ask him,' said I.
'He been see Lobengula at Bulawayo,' said Billy. 'Lobengula chase him away into the jungle because he say bad words.'
'What kind of bad words?' I asked, in some surprise.
'Bad words: he say Lobengula not fight white people; white people eat him up.'
Umkopo, then, thought I, was like one of the prophets, who prophesied evil things which were unwelcome to the king.
'Lobengula chase him into jungle; much men run after him. Umkopo hide, drink bad water, nearly die, then no food.'
It was clear that the poor lad could not be left where he was in his present weak state; he must return with us to camp, which was two or three miles away at the edge of this jungle.