ovements were
slightly erratic. He sat forward, staring at the photograph, as he drank
more brandy. Outside, the paean of the frogs pulsed steadily. From a
distance came the throb of a native drum. A cricket shrilled
intermittently.

"Bwana!"

The ghostly figure of Bakunjala whispered from the doorway. Zu Pfeiffer
started nervously.

"Zingala," began Bakunjala timorously.

"Gott verdamf--Emshi!" snapped zu Pfeiffer, his ring flashing in an
irritable gesture.

Bakunjala melted. Came a mutter of voices and a subdued giggle.

Zu Pfeiffer sat and drank and stared. Above the insectile anthem of the
night, rose a gurgling voice in a drinking song.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} Later the crash of a
breaking glass was accompanied by an oath. The glimmer of three pairs of
eyes through the window screen vanished and reappeared.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} Once more rose
the voice singing:

"Scheiden tut weh,
Scheiden, ja scheiden, scheiden tut weh!"

Just as the cricket began anew, after having politely ceased to hear the
lieutenant's song, trickled out upon the clammy air the sound of weeping.

CHAPTER 6

In the violet shadow of his square hut inside the compound, squatted Zalu
Zako. The lips and nose were nearer to the Aryan delicacy than the negroid
bluntness; for the Wongolo, like the Wahima, are a mixed Bantu-Somali
race. In colour his skin had the red of bronze rather than the blue of the
negro, and the planes of his moulded chest were as light as the worn ivory
bracelets upon his polished limbs. Broad in the shoulders he had almost
the slender hips of a young girl and his carriage was as balanced as a
dancer's.

From a group of small round huts behind his square hut, where dwelt his
two wives, concubines and slaves, came the clutter of voices. A distant
drum throbbed gently on the hot air. Away in the cool green of the banana
plantation rose the crooning chant of the unmarried girls and slaves
bringing water from the river.

Apparently Zalu Zako was absorbed in the movements of a diminutive chicken
scratching in the soil. The omen of the goat was occupying his mind: that
and the death of his grandfather, MFunya MPopo. There was no sense of
grief, for he was not a woman. Now, at the beginning of his warrior's
career, he had not any desire for divine honours and celibacy. No man had.
Yet Zalu Zako no more dreamed of questioning the necessity than of
spitting in the face