If Babemba has once been
to Pongo-land, I reflected to myself, Babemba can go again or show us
the way there.

"And if we catch any of the Pongo," went on Bausi, "as sometimes we do
when they come to hunt for slaves, we kill them. Ever since the Mazitu
have been in this place there has been hate and war between them and
the Pongo, and if I could wipe out those evil ones, then I should die
happily."

"That you will never do, O King, while the White Devil lives," said
Babemba. "Have you not heard the Pongo prophecy, that while the White
Devil lives and the Holy Flower blooms, they will live. But when the
White Devil dies and the Holy Flower ceases to bloom, then their women
will become barren and their end will be upon them."

"Well, I suppose that this White Devil will die some day," I said.

"Not so, Macumazana. It will never die of itself. Like its wicked
Priest, it has been there from the beginning and will always be there
unless it is killed. But who is there that can kill the White Devil?"

I thought to myself that I would not mind trying, but again I did not
pursue the point.

"My brother Dogeetah and lords," exclaimed Bausi, "it is not possible
that you should visit these wizards except at the head of an army.
But how can I send an army with you, seeing that the Mazitu are a land
people and have no canoes in which to cross the great lake, and no trees
whereof to make them?"

We answered that we did not know but would think the matter over, as we
had come from our own place for this purpose and meant to carry it out.

Then the audience came to an end, and we returned to our huts, leaving
Dogeetah to converse with his "brother Bausi" on matters connected with
the latter's health. As I passed Babemba I told him that I should like
to see him alone, and he said that he would visit me that evening after
supper. The rest of the day passed quietly, for we had asked that people
might be kept away from our encampment.

We found Hans, who had not accompanied us, being a little shy of
appearing in public just then, engaged in cleaning the rifles, and this
reminded me of something. Taking the double-barrelled gun of which I
have spoken, I called Mavovo and handed it to him, saying:

"It is yours, O true prophet."

"Yes, my father," he answered, "it is mine for a little while, then
perhaps it will be yours again."

The words struck me, but I did not care to ask their meaning. Somehow I
wanted to hear no more of