The reception accorded Robert Moffat by Moselekatse may best be described in the missionary’s own words:—­

“We proceeded directly to the town, and on riding into the centre of the large fold, we were rather taken by surprise to find it lined by eight hundred warriors, besides two hundred who were concealed on each side of the entrance, as if in ambush.  We were beckoned to dismount, which we did, holding our horses’ bridles in our hands.  The warriors at the gate instantly rushed in with hideous yells, and leaping from the earth with a kind of kilt round their bodies, hanging like loose tails, and their large shields, frightened our horses.  They then joined the circle, falling into rank with as much order as if they had been accustomed to European tactics.  Here we stood, surrounded by warriors, whose kilts were of ape skins, and their legs and arms adorned with the hair and tails of oxen, their shields reaching to their chins and their heads adorned with feathers.

“A profound silence followed for some ten minutes; then all commenced a war-song, stamping their feet in time with the music.  No one approached, though every eye was fixed upon us.  Then all was silent, and Moselekatse marched out from behind the lines with an interpreter, and with attendants following, bearing meat, beer, and other food.  He gave us a hearty salutation and seemed overjoyed.”

The waggons were objects that struck the dusky monarch with awe.  He examined them minutely, especially the wheels; one point remained a mystery, how the iron tire surrounding the wheel came to be in one piece without end or joint.  Umbate, the head-man, who had visited the mission station, explained what he had seen in the smith’s shop there.  “My eyes,” said he, “saw that very hand,” pointing to Moffat’s hand, “cut these bars of iron, take a piece off one end, and then join them as you now see them.”  “Does he give medicine to the iron?” the monarch inquired.  “No,” said Umbate, “nothing is used but fire, a hammer, and a chisel.”

This powerful chieftain was an absolute despot ruling over a tribe of fierce warriors, who knew no will but his.  He was the terror of all the surrounding country, his smile was life, his frown scattered horror and death.  Yet even in his savage breast there were chords that could be touched by kindness, and Moffat received many tokens of his friendship during the eight days that he stayed in his town.

During one of their first interviews the monarch, laying his hand upon Moffats shoulder, said, “My heart is all white as milk; I am still wondering at the love of a stranger who never saw me.  You have fed me, you have protected me, you have carried me in your arms.  I live to-day by you, a stranger.”

Upon Moffat replying that he was unaware of having rendered him any such service, he said, pointing to his two ambassadors:  “These are great men; Umbate is my right hand.  When I sent them from my presence to see the land of the white men, I sent my ears, my eyes, my mouth; what they heard I heard, what they saw I saw, and what they said it was Moselekatse who said it.  You fed them and clothed them, and when they were to be slain you were their shield.  You did it unto me.  You did it unto Moselekatse, the son of Machobane.”