of what I will call my fire, next into that of Saduko’s fire, and then lean back, blowing the stuff in clouds from his mouth and nostrils.  Afterwards I saw him roll over on to his side and lie quite still with his arms outstretched; indeed, I noticed that one of his fingers seemed to be in the left-hand fire and reflected that it would be burnt off.  In this, however, I must have been mistaken, since I observed subsequently that it was not even scorched.

Thus Zikali lay for a long while till I began to wonder whether he were not really dead.  Dead enough he seemed to be, for no corpse could have stayed more stirless.  But that night I could not keep my thoughts fixed on Zikali or anything.  I merely noted these circumstances in a mechanical way, as might one with whom they had nothing whatsoever to do.  They did not interest me at all, for there appeared to be nothing in me to be interested, as I gathered according to Zikali, because I was not there, but in a warmer place than I hope ever to occupy, namely, in the stone in that unpleasant-looking, little right-hand fire.

So matters went as they might in a dream.  The sun had sunk completely, not even an after-glow was left.  The only light remaining was that from the smouldering fires, which just sufficed to illumine the bulk of Zikali, lying on his side, his squat shape looking like that of a dead hippopotamus calf.  What was left of my consciousness grew heartily sick of the whole affair; I was tired of being so empty.

At length the dwarf stirred.  He sat up, yawned, sneezed, shook himself, and began to rake among the burning embers of my fire with his naked hand.  Presently he found the white stone, which was now red-hot—­at any rate it glowed as though it were—­and after examining it for a moment finally popped it into his mouth!  Then he hunted in the other fire for the black stone, which he treated in a similar fashion.  The next thing I remember was that the fires, which had died away almost to nothing, were burning very brightly again, I suppose because someone had put fuel on them, and Zikali was speaking.

“Come here, O Macumazana and O Son of Matiwane,” he said, “and I will repeat to you what your spirits have been telling me.”

We drew near into the light of the fires, which for some reason or other was extremely vivid.  Then he spat the white stone from his mouth into his big hand, and I saw that now it was covered with lines and patches like a bird’s egg.

“You cannot read the signs?” he said, holding it towards me; and when I shook my head went on:  “Well, I can, as you white men read a book.  All your history is written here, Macumazahn; but there is no need to tell you that, since you know it, as I do well enough, having learned it in other days, the days of Dingaan, Macumazahn.  All your future, also, a very strange future,” and he scanned the stone with interest.  “Yes, yes; a wonderful life, and a noble death far away.