But of these matters you have not asked me, and therefore I may not tell them even if I wished, nor would you believe if I did.  It is of your hunting trip that you have asked me, and my answer is that if you seek your own comfort you will do well not to go.  A pool in a dry river-bed; a buffalo bull with the tip of one horn shattered.  Yourself and the bull in the pool.  Saduko, yonder, also in the pool, and a little half-bred man with a gun jumping about upon the bank.  Then a litter made of boughs and you in it, and the father of Mameena walking lamely at your side.  Then a hut and you in it, and the maiden called Mameena sitting at your side.

“Macumazahn, your spirit has written on this stone that you should beware of Mameena, since she is more dangerous than any buffalo.  If you are wise you will not go out hunting with Umbezi, although it is true that hunt will not cost you your life.  There, away, Stone, and take your writings with you!” and as he spoke he jerked his arm and I heard something whiz past my face.

Next he spat out the black stone and examined it in similar fashion.

“Your expedition will be successful, Son of Matiwane,” he said.  “Together with Macumazahn you will win many cattle at the cost of sundry lives.  But for the rest—­well, you did not ask me of it, did you?  Also, I have told you something of that story before to-day.  Away, Stone!” and the black pebble followed the white out into the surrounding gloom.

We sat quite still until the dwarf broke the deep silence with one of his great laughs.

“My witchcraft is done,” he said.  “A poor tale, was it not?  Well, hunt for those stones to-morrow and read the rest of it if you can.  Why did you not ask me to tell you everything while I was about it, White Man?  It would have interested you more, but now it has all gone from me back into your spirit with the stones.  Saduko, get you to sleep.  Macumazahn, you who are a Watcher-by-Night, come and sit with me awhile in my hut, and we will talk of other things.  All this business of the stones is nothing more than a Kafir trick, is it, Macumazahn?  When you meet the buffalo with the split horn in the pool of a dried river, remember it is but a cheating trick, and now come into my hut and drink a kamba [bowl] of beer and let us talk of other things more interesting.”

So he took me into the hut, which was a fine one, very well lighted by a fire in its centre, and gave me Kafir beer to drink, that I swallowed gratefully, for my throat was dry and still felt as though it had been scraped.

“Who are you, Father?” I asked point-blank when I had taken my seat upon a low stool, with my back resting against the wall of the hut, and lit my pipe.

He lifted his big head from the pile of karosses on which he was lying and peered at me across the fire.

“My name is Zikali, which means ‘Weapons,’ White Man.  You know as much as that, don’t you?” he answered.  “My father ‘went down’ so long ago that his does not matter.  I am a dwarf, very ugly, with some learning, as we of the Black House understand it, and very old.  Is there anything else you would like to learn?”