ctor, who, in his way, is often just as big a pot as a
chief--sometimes a bigger. You'd better come over with me and talk to
him, Miss Vidal; then, when you've had enough of him, you can go away,
whereas if I bring him here he may stick on for ever."

Old Qubani, who was squatting against the enclosure talking to a
roughish-looking white man, rose to his feet as he saw Driffield, and
with hand uplifted poured forth lavish _sibongo_. Then he turned to
Clare.

"_Nkosazana! Uhle! Amehlo kwezulu! Wou! Sipazi-pazi_!"

"What does he say?" she asked.

"He hails you as a princess, says that you are beautiful, and have eyes
like the heavens--and that you are dazzling. That's why he put his hand
over his eyes and looked down."

"Silly old man; he's quite poetical," she said, looking pleased all the
same.

"_Indhlovukazi_!"

"Now he's calling you a female elephant."

"Oh, the horrid old wretch. That is a come down, Mr Driffield."

"Yes, it sounds so, but it's a big word of _sibongo_, or praise, with
them."

"Oh well, then I must forgive him."

"_Intandokazi_!"

"What's that?" said Clare, but Driffield had cut short the old man's
rigmarole and was talking to him about something else. He did not care
to tell her that she was being hailed as his--Driffield's--principal--or
rather best-loved--wife. Two white men, standing near, and who
understood, turned away with a suppressed splutter.

There was the usual request for tobacco, and then, Qubani glancing
meaningly in the direction of the bar tent, remarked that he had
travelled far, and that the white man made better _tywala_ than the
Amandabeli, as, indeed, what could not the white men do.

"A bottle of Bass won't hurt him," declared Driffield, sending across
for it.

"Why does he wear that great thick cap?" said Clare. "He'd look much
better without it."

"This?" said the old man, putting his hand to the cap of red knitted
worsted, surmounted by a tuft, which adorned his head--as the remark was
translated to him. "_Whau_! I am old and the nights are not warm."

"Why, he's got on two," said Clare, as the movement, slightly displacing
the red cap, showed another underneath made of like material but white.
"Goodness! I wonder his head doesn't split."

"Native heads don't split in a hurry, Miss Vidal," said Orwell, the
Resident Magistrate, who had joined them in time to catch the remark.

"I don't believe I ought to speak to you, Mr Orwell--at any r