fraction of that half minute the hand of Nxala again shot out till
it rested above the chief's drinking vessel, and as quickly withdrew.
The latter sat down again leisurely, the assegai in his hand.

"Yes. It is a great spear," he went on meditatively, but carefully
refraining from handing it to the other. "And there is no more use for
it. But--we will drink to its memory."

He raised the bowl before him. The other watching him, could hardly
suppress the gleam of satisfaction which flitted across his face. But
it faded in an instant. The bowl dropped from the chief's hand on to
his knees. The liquor gushed forth on to the floor.

"The bowl, my father," cried Nxala eagerly. "Break it into pieces--in
small pieces--for it is bad _muti_ to drop it at the moment of
drinking."

"It is worse _muti_, sometimes, to drink the moment before dropping it,"
answered the old man, tranquilly, setting the bowl beside him. "I will
have another brought." And again he raised his voice in a hail. Again
the women appeared, and having supplied another bowl, and also a fresh
brew of _tywala_, withdrew.

Nxala, watching, could scarcely restrain himself. The first part of his
diabolical scheme had miscarried. Was it time for the second act? And
there before him sat the old chief, the fine assegai in his hand--yet
held in a firm grip, he did not fail to notice--crooning words of
_sibongo_ to it, as he recalled its deeds in past times. Had the scheme
succeeded all would have gone so easy. This kraal of Zavula's was an
insignificant cluster of a dozen huts, whither the old chief loved to
retire. He was old--what more natural than that he should die in
retirement? Yes--it was time for the second act. He would give the
signal.

"Have you heard, my father; the new song that the people have made?" he
said. "The new war-song? Listen. This is how it runs."

But before he had uttered three words of it a trampling of hoofs was
heard outside the hut, and a lusty European voice--though speaking
faultless Zulu--enquiring which was the hut of the chief. Following on
the answer there came through the low door of the hut a man, a white
man--and he was known to both as the magistrate's clerk from Kwabulazi.

"Greeting to you, father," he cried, falling into the native idiom, and
shaking Zavula heartily by the hand.

"Greeting, my son," answered the old chief genially. "Sit. Here is
_tywala_. Have you ridden far?"

"Far? Have