kill him, Kambula, although it
is true he does not look very terrible?"

"Because the king's word was that I should bring him to the king
living," answered Kambula. Then he added cheerfully: "Still, if the king
wishes it, I can kill him at once."

"I don't know," said Dingaan doubtfully; "perhaps he can mend guns."
Next, after reflecting a while, he bade a shield-holder to fetch
someone, I could not hear whom.

"Doubtless," thought I to myself, "it is the executioner," and at that
thought a kind of mad rage seized me. Why should my life be ended thus
in youth to satisfy the whim of a savage? And if it must be so, why
should I go alone?

In the inside pocket of my ragged coat I had a small loaded pistol with
two barrels. One of those barrels would kill Dingaan--at five paces I
could not miss that bulk--and the other would blow out my brains, for
I was not minded to have my neck twisted or to be beaten to death with
sticks. Well, if it was to be done, I had better do it at once. Already
my hand was creeping towards the pocket when a new idea, or rather two
ideas, struck me.

The first was that if I shot Dingaan the Zulus would probably massacre
Marie and the others--Marie, whose sweet face I should never see again.
The second was that while there is life there is hope. Perhaps, after
all, he had not sent for an executioner, but for someone else. I would
wait. A few minutes more of existence were worth the having.

The shield-bearer returned, emerging from one of the narrow, reed-hedged
passages, and after him came no executioner, but a young white man,
who, as I knew from the look of him, was English. He saluted the king by
taking off his hat, which I remember was stuck round with black ostrich
feathers, then stared at me.

"O Tho-maas" (that is how he pronounced "Thomas"), said Dingaan, "tell
me if this boy is one of your brothers, or is he a Boer?"

"The king wants to know if you are Dutch or British," said the white
lad, speaking in English.

"As British as you are," I answered. "I was born in England, and come
from the Cape."

"That may be lucky for you," he said, "because the old witch-doctor,
Zikali, has told him that he must not kill any English. What is your
name? Mine is Thomas Halstead. I am interpreter here."

"Allan Quatermain. Tell Zikali, whoever he may be, that if he sticks to
his advice I will give him a good present."

"What are you talking about?" asked Dingaan suspiciously.

"He says he