ou admired so much."

One of his rare smiles appeared upon Mavovo's ugly face.

"Then give it to me now, _Baba_," he said, "for it is already earned. My
Snake cannot lie--especially when the fee is half-a-crown."

I shook my head and declined, politely but with firmness.

"Ah!" said Mavovo, "you white men are very clever and think that you
know everything. But it is not so, for in learning so much that is new,
you have forgotten more that is old. When the Snake that is in you,
Macumazana, dwelt in a black savage like me a thousand thousand years
ago, you could have done and did what I do. But now you can only mock
and say, 'Mavovo the brave in battle, the great hunter, the loyal man,
becomes a liar when he blows the burnt feather, or reads what the wind
writes upon the charmed ashes.'"

"I do not say that you are a liar, Mavovo, I say that you are deceived
by your own imaginings. It is not possible that man can know what is
hidden from man."

"Is it indeed so, O Macumazana, Watcher by Night? Am I, Mavovo, the
pupil of Zikali, the Opener of Roads, the greatest of wizards, indeed
deceived by my own imaginings? And has man no other eyes but those in
his head, that he cannot see what is hidden from man? Well, you say so
and all we black people know that you are very clever, and why should I,
a poor Zulu, be able to see what you cannot see? Yet when to-morrow one
sends you a message from the ship in which we are to sail, begging you
to come fast because there is trouble on the ship, then bethink you of
your words and my words, and whether or no man can see what is hidden
from man in the blackness of the future. Oh! that rifle of yours is mine
already, though you will not give it to me now, you who think that I
am a cheat. Well, my father Macumazana, because you think I am a cheat,
never again will I blow the feather or read what the wind writes upon
the ashes for you or any who eat your food."

Then he rose, saluted me with uplifted right hand, collected his little
pile of money and bag of medicines and marched off to the sleeping hut.

On our way round the house we met my old lame caretaker, Jack.

"_Inkoosi_," he said, "the white chief Wazela bade me say that he and
the cook, Sam, have gone to sleep on board the ship to look after the
goods. Sam came up just now and fetched him away; he says he will show
you why to-morrow."

I nodded and passed on, wondering to myself why Stephen had suddenly
determined to stay