One day ’Ndakana appeared at the kraal, where some beer had been brewed. The beer-drink did not degenerate into an orgie, as beer-drinks frequently do. The guests were hospitably entertained, three goats having been slaughtered for their consumption. Towards the end of the day the “gqira” drew Noquala into conversation.
“Have you never thought of having your cattle doctored?” he asked.
Noquala admitted that such an idea had occurred to him.
“I suppose you have heard of this new medicine that the Government claims to have found out,” continued ’Ndakana, “and of how it has sometimes cured and sometimes failed?”
“Yes, I have heard of it.”
“Well, now, I will tell you the truth about the matter. The Government found out about herds that had been treated by our doctors, and then they sent their own cattle doctors to administer medicine, so that they might claim the credit.”
Noquala looked incredulous. He had had some experience of the frauds of the native doctors; when the red-water had attacked his own herd, years previously, the “gqira” he had called in promised certain cure, but the promise had miserably failed. Still, he had seen this man ’Ndakana drive death away from the bedside of his son, and that after the European doctor had confessed himself vanquished.
The sun was going down and ’Ndakana glanced keenly once or twice towards the glowing west. He strolled a few paces forward, leading his companion by, as it were, a conversational leash. When he stopped, still talking, he faced the sunset and his companion had his back to it. The “gqira’s” glances, which had now become more rapid and frequent, were still directed to the pyre of the dying day.
Suddenly he lifted his hand, and his voice became vehement.
“Noquala, man of many cattle, I know the secret and I will save your herd from destruction if you will let me do so. Do you demand a sign to prove my power?”