“What does it matter?” said Umbezi, as he picked himself up, rubbing his shoulder with a rueful look.  “Would that the evil spirit in the gun had cut off her tongue and not her ear!  It is the Worn-out-Old-Cow’s own fault; she is always peeping into everything like a monkey.  Now she will have something to chatter about and leave my things alone for awhile.  I thank my ancestral Spirit it was not Mameena, for then her looks would have been spoiled.”

“Who is Mameena?” I asked.  “Your last wife?”

“No, no, Macumazahn; I wish she were, for then I should have the most beautiful wife in the land.  She is my daughter, though not that of the Worn-out-Old-Cow; her mother died when she was born, on the night of the Great Storm.  You should ask Saduko there who Mameena is,” he added with a broad grin, lifting his head from the gun, which he was examining gingerly, as though he thought it might go off again while unloaded, and nodding towards someone who stood behind him.

I turned, and for the first time saw Saduko, whom I recognised at once as a person quite out of the ordinary run of natives.

He was a tall and magnificently formed young man, who, although his breast was scarred with assegai wounds, showing that he was a warrior, had not yet attained to the honour of the “ring” of polished wax laid over strips of rush bound round with sinew and sewn to the hair, the “isicoco” which at a certain age or dignity, determined by the king, Zulus are allowed to assume.  But his face struck me more even than his grace, strength and stature.  Undoubtedly it was a very fine face, with little or nothing of the negroid type about it; indeed, he might have been a rather dark-coloured Arab, to which stock he probably threw back.  The eyes, too, were large and rather melancholy, and in his reserved, dignified air there was something that showed him to be no common fellow, but one of breeding and intellect.

“Siyakubona” (that is, “we see you,” anglice “good morrow”) “Saduko,” I said, eyeing him curiously.  “Tell me, who is Mameena?”

“Inkoosi,” he answered in his deep voice, lifting his delicately shaped hand in salutation, a courtesy that pleased me who, after all, was nothing but a white hunter, “Inkoosi, has not her father said that she is his daughter?”

“Aye,” answered the jolly old Umbezi, “but what her father has not said is that Saduko is her lover, or, rather, would like to be.  Wow!  Saduko,” he went on, shaking his fat finger at him, “are you mad, man, that you think a girl like that is for you?  Give me a hundred cattle, not one less, and I will begin to think of it.  Why, you have not ten, and Mameena is my eldest daughter, and must marry a rich man.”

“She loves me, O Umbezi,” answered Saduko, looking down, “and that is more than cattle.”