a
Kaffir witch-doctor.

To rely on this in any way was so absurd that I gave up thinking of
it and set my mind to considering if there were any possible means of
escape. After hours of reflection I could find none. Even Hans, with
all his experience and nearly superhuman cunning, could suggest none.
We were unarmed and surrounded by thousands of savages, all of whom
save perhaps Babemba, believed us to be slave-traders, a race that very
properly they held in abhorrence, who had visited the country with the
object of stealing their women and children. The king, Bausi, a very
prejudiced fellow, was dead against us. Also by a piece of foolishness
which I now bitterly regretted, as indeed I regretted the whole
expedition, or at any rate entering on it in the absence of Brother
John, we had made an implacable enemy of the head medicine-man, who to
these folk was a sort of Archbishop of Canterbury. Short of a miracle,
there was no hope for us. All that we could do was to say our prayers
and prepare for the end.

Mavovo, it is true, remained cheerful. His faith in his "Snake" was
really touching. He offered to go through that divination process again
in our presence and demonstrate that there was no mistake. I declined
because I had no faith in divinations, and Stephen also declined, for
another reason, namely that the result might prove to be different,
which, he held, would be depressing. The other Zulus oscillated between
belief and scepticism, as do the unstable who set to work to study the
evidences of Christianity. But Sammy did not oscillate, he literally
howled, and prepared the food which poured in upon us so badly that I
had to turn on Hans to do the cooking, for however little appetite we
might have, it was necessary that we should keep up our strength by
eating.

"What, Mr. Quatermain," asked Sammy between his tears, "is the use of
dressing viands that our systems will never have time to thoroughly
assimilate?"

The first night passed somehow, and so did the next day and the next
night which heralded our last morning. I got up quite early and watched
the sunrise. Never, I think, had I realised before what a beautiful
thing the sunrise is, at least not to the extent I did now when I was
saying good-bye to it for ever. Unless indeed there should prove to be
still lovelier sunrises beyond the dark of death! Then I went into
our hut, and as Stephen, who had the nerves of a rhinoceros, was still
sleeping like a to