witchcraft is done," he said. "A poor tale, was it not? Well, hunt
for those stones to-morrow and read the rest of it if you can. Why did
you not ask me to tell you everything while I was about it, White Man?
It would have interested you more, but now it has all gone from me back
into your spirit with the stones. Saduko, get you to sleep. Macumazahn,
you who are a Watcher-by-Night, come and sit with me awhile in my hut,
and we will talk of other things. All this business of the stones is
nothing more than a Kafir trick, is it, Macumazahn? When you meet the
buffalo with the split horn in the pool of a dried river, remember it is
but a cheating trick, and now come into my hut and drink a kamba [bowl]
of beer and let us talk of other things more interesting."

So he took me into the hut, which was a fine one, very well lighted by
a fire in its centre, and gave me Kafir beer to drink, that I swallowed
gratefully, for my throat was dry and still felt as though it had been
scraped.

"Who are you, Father?" I asked point-blank when I had taken my seat upon
a low stool, with my back resting against the wall of the hut, and lit
my pipe.

He lifted his big head from the pile of karosses on which he was lying
and peered at me across the fire.

"My name is Zikali, which means 'Weapons,' White Man. You know as much
as that, don't you?" he answered. "My father 'went down' so long ago
that his does not matter. I am a dwarf, very ugly, with some learning,
as we of the Black House understand it, and very old. Is there anything
else you would like to learn?"

"Yes, Zikali; how old?"

"There, there, Macumazahn, as you know, we poor Kafirs cannot count very
well. How old? Well, when I was young I came down towards the coast from
the Great River, you call it the Zambesi, I think, with Undwandwe, who
lived in the north in those days. They have forgotten it now because it
is some time ago, and if I could write I would set down the history of
that march, for we fought some great battles with the people who used to
live in this country. Afterwards I was the friend of the Father of the
Zulus, he whom they still call Inkoosi Umkulu--the mighty chief--you may
have heard tell of him. I carved that stool on which you sit for him and
he left it back to me when he died."

"Inkoosi Umkulu!" I exclaimed. "Why, they say he lived hundreds of years
ago."

"Do they, Macumazahn? If so, have I not told you that we black people
cannot count as well a