“At least you have your husband, Mameena, and I thought that perhaps by this time—­”

She held up her hand.

“My husband!  Oh, I would that I had him not, for I hate him, Macumazahn; and as for the rest—­never!  The truth is that I never cared for any man except one whose name you may chance to remember, Macumazahn.”

“I suppose you mean Saduko—­” I began.

“Tell me, Macumazahn,” she inquired innocently, “are white people very stupid?  I ask because you do not seem as clever as you used to be.  Or have you perhaps a bad memory?”

Now I felt myself turning red as the sky behind me, and broke in hurriedly: 

“If you did not like your husband, Mameena, you should not have married him.  You know you need not unless you wished.”

“When one has only two thorn bushes to sit on, Macumazahn, one chooses that which seems to have the fewest prickles, to discover sometimes that they are still there in hundreds, although one did not see them.  You know that at length everyone gets tired of standing.”

“Is that why you have taken to walking, Mameena?  I mean, what are you doing here alone?”

“I?  Oh, I heard that you were passing this way, and came to have a talk with you.  No, from you I cannot hide even the least bit of the truth.  I came to talk with you, but also I came to see Zikali and ask him what a wife should do who hates her husband.”

“Indeed!  And what did he answer you?”

“He answered that he thought she had better run away with another man, if there were one whom she did not hate—­out of Zululand, of course,” she replied, looking first at me and then at my wagon and the two horses that were tied to it.

“Is that all he said, Mameena?”

“No.  Have I not told you that I cannot hide one grain of the truth from you?  He added that the only other thing to be done was to sit still and drink my sour milk, pretending that it is sweet, until my Spirit gives me a new cow.  He seemed to think that my Spirit would be bountiful in the matter of new cows—­one day.”

“Anything more?” I inquired.

“One little thing.  Have I not told you that you shall have all—­all the truth?  Zikali seemed to think also that at last every one of my herd of cows, old and new, would come to a bad end.  He did not tell me to what end.”

She turned her head aside, and when she looked up again I saw that she was weeping, really weeping this time, not just making her eyes swim, as she did before.

“Of course they will come to a bad end, Macumazahn,” she went on in a soft, thick voice, “for I and all with whom I have to do were ’torn out of the reeds’ [i.e. created] that way.  And that’s why I won’t tempt you to run away with me any more, as I meant to do when I saw you, because it is true, Macumazahn you are the only man I ever liked or ever shall like; and you know I could