nger. And, in the centre of all
this brewing commotion, quite unconcerned, although clearly the object
of it, stood ten men, or to be more accurate, eleven. These were of the
same colour and build, of the same cast of features, as those around
them, but whereas the excited inhabitants of the kraal wore nothing but
the _mutya_, these were clad in neat uniform, consisting of blue serge
tunic, red-braided khaki knee-breeches, and fez caps; and while the
others showed no weapons--as yet--save knobsticks, these were armed with
Martini rifles and well-filled bandoliers. They consisted, in fact, of
a sergeant and ten men of the Chartered Company's Matabele Police, and
to their presence and errand there at that time was due the brooding,
not to say dangerous, excitement prevailing. The nature of that errand
stood revealed in the _indaba_ then being held between the two opposing
parties.

"Who talks of time?" said the police sergeant, swelling himself out in
his uniform, with the swagger of a native of no class who finds himself
in a position of authority, and by virtue of it qualified to domineer
over and flout those of his own race to whom formerly he looked up with
deference. "Who talks of time? You have had time, Madula--more than
enough time--yet the cattle have not been sent in. Now we have come to
take them. It is the `word' of the Government."

A click, expressive of contemptuous disgust, broke from the groups of
bystanders, and with it deep-toned murmurs of savage wrath. But its
only effect was further to develop the arrogant swagger of the native
sergeant.

"Keep your dogs quiet, Madula," he said insolently, with a sneering
glance at the murmurers. "_Hau_! A man cannot talk amid such a barking
of curs."

"A man! _Hau_! A man! A dog rather. A dog--who cringes to those who
throw stones at him and his father's house," they shouted, undeterred by
the presence of their elders and chief; for the familiar, and therefore
impudent manner in which this uniformed "dog of the Government" had
dared to address their chief by name, stung them beyond control. "Who
is the `dog'? Nanzicele, the bastard. Not his father's son, for Izwe
was a brave man and a true, and could never have been the father of such
a whelp as Nanzicele. _Au_! Go home, Nanzicele. Go home!" they
shouted, shaking their sticks with roars of jeering laughter, in which
there was no note of real mirth.

At these insults Nanzicele's broad count