“Izwa!” (very coldly).

“A woman?”

“Izwa!” (still more coldly).

“Then a child?  It must be a child, unless indeed it is the death of a spirit.  But what do you people know of spirits?  A child!  A child!  Ah! you hear me—­a child.  A male child, I think.  Do you not say so, O Dust?”

“Izwa!” (emphatically).

“A common child?  A bastard?  The son of nobody?”

“Izwa!” (very low).

“A well-born child?  One who would have been great?  O Dust, I hear, I hear; a royal child, a child in whom ran the blood of the Father of the Zulus, he who was my friend?  The blood of Senzangakona, the blood of the ‘Black One,’ the blood of Panda.”

He stopped, while both from the chorus and from the thousands of the circle gathered around went up one roar of “Izwa!” emphasised by a mighty movement of outstretched arms and down-pointing thumbs.

Then silence, during which Zikali stamped upon all the remaining markings, saying: 

“I thank you, O Dust, though I am sorry to have troubled you for so small a matter.  So, so,” he went on presently, “a royal boy-child is dead, and you think by witchcraft.  Let us find out if he died by witchcraft or as others die, by command of the Heavens that need them.  What!  Here is one mark which I have left.  Look!  It grows red, it is full of spots!  The child died with a twisted face.”

“Izwa!  Izwa!  Izwa!” (crescendo).

“This death was not natural.  Now, was it witchcraft or was it poison?  Both, I think, both.  And whose was the child?  Not that of a son of the King, I think.  Oh, yes, you hear me, People, you hear me; but be silent; I do not need your help.  No, not of a son; of a daughter, then.”  He turned and, looked about him till his eye fell upon a group of women, amongst whom sat Nandie, dressed like a common person.  “Of a daughter, a daughter—­” He walked to the group of women.  “Why, none of these are royal; they are the children of low people.  And yet—­and yet I seem to smell the blood of Senzangakona.”

He sniffed at the air as a dog does, and as he sniffed drew ever nearer to Nandie, till at last he laughed and pointed to her.

“Your child, Princess, whose name I do not know.  Your firstborn child, whom you loved more than your own heart.”

She rose.

“Yes, yes, Nyanga,” she cried.  “I am the Princess Nandie, and he was my child, whom I loved more than my own heart.”

“Haha!” said Zikali.  “Dust, you did not lie to me.  My Spirit, you did not lie to me.  But now, tell me, Dust—­and tell me, my Spirit—­who killed this child?”

He began to waddle round the circle, an extraordinary sight, covered as he was with grey grime, varied with streaks of black skin where the perspiration had washed the dust away.

Presently he came opposite to me, and, to my dismay, paused, sniffing at me as he had at Nandie.