e had better go home. It is not a healthy
amusement for any man to try and snatch my gun out of my hand."

At these words, cool and contemptuous, a new outburst of wrath went up,
and the excited savages began to crowd up nearer, clamouring that
Kulondeka should be given up to their vengeance. Some in the background
raised the war-cry. It was taken up, and, gathering volume, sounded
back from the hills, whence now other bands were hurrying to the scene.
The chief's son stepped to the side of Harley Greenoak and threw an arm
around his shoulders.

"See. We are brothers," he said. "The Great Chief is the father of
both."

Again there was a silence, broken immediately by a voice.

"_Au_! The son of the Great Chief is bewitched. This Kulondeka is the
eyes and ears of the whites--here, everywhere. How then can he, too, be
the son of the Great Chief?" And a fresh outburst greeted the words.

Greenoak noticed that this was the man who had tried to turn him back.
He had thrust himself forward, and being a headman of some standing, and
elderly, he might prove dangerous in the scale. And his leanings were
hostile.

Matanzima drew himself up. It was time to assert his dignity, and he
had plenty of it. Seen outwardly now, he was a lithe, straight,
well-set-up savage, with clear eyes and a decidedly pleasing face. He
wore an ample kaross of leopard skin, flung loosely around him, and but
for this, and a massive ivory armlet, displayed no adornment whatever.
Now he turned his eyes sternly upon the assembled rout, sweeping it
steadily from end to end with his glance.

"Have I no men?" he said, in slow, incisive tones. "Have I no men?
Then who are these? Are they Mafutana's dogs, or are they mine? _Hau_!
There are dogs who bark too loud, but when it comes to biting slink
away with their tails down. How is it with these? I lead not such dogs
to war."

The clamourers paused, shamefaced. Matanzima was immensely popular with
the younger men; in fact, was regarded as the leader and hope of the
war-party. They dared not actively oppose him. They knew, too, that
but for this white man, for whose blood they were thirsting, he would
never have been here to lead them. The clamour seemed to be dying out.

"What of Nzinto yonder, son of the Great Chief?" cried a voice. "He is
the son of my father, and lo!--he lies dead."

"M-m!" The deep-chested murmur from the crowd backed the words. All
eyes were bent eagerly