“Macumazahn does not miss,” I replied loftily.  “If that at which he aimed is unharmed, it is because it cannot be hit.”

“O-ho-o!” laughed Zikali, “the White Man who does not know the taste of his own love’s lips, says that he has fired at that which cannot be hit.  Let him try again.  No, let him choose another target.  The Spirit is the Spirit, but he who summoned her may still be a cheat.  There is another bullet in your little gun, White Man; see if it can pierce the heart of Zikali, that the King and Council may learn whether he be a true prophet, the greatest of all the prophets that ever was, or whether he be but a common cheat.”

Now a sudden rage filled me against this old rascal.  I remembered how he had brought Mameena to her death, when he thought that it would serve him, and since then filled the land with stories concerning her and me, which met me whatever way I turned.  I remembered that for years he had plotted to bring about the destruction of the Zulus, and to further his dark ends, was now engaged in causing a fearful war which would cost the lives of thousands.  I remembered that he had trapped me into Zululand and then handed me over to Cetewayo, separating me from my friends who were in my charge, and for aught I knew, giving them to death.  Surely the world would be well rid of him.

“Have your will,” I shouted and covered him with the pistol.

Then there came into my mind a certain saying—­“Judge not that ye be not judged.”  Who and what was I that I should dare to arraign and pass sentence upon this man who after all had suffered many wrongs?  As I was about to fire I caught sight of some bright object flashing towards the king from above, and instantaneously shifted my aim and pressed the trigger.  The thing, whatever it might be, flew in two.  One part of it fell upon Zikali, the other part travelled on and struck Cetewayo upon the knee.

There followed a great confusion and a cry of “The king is stabbed!” I ran forward to look and saw the blade of a little assegai lying on the ground and on Cetewayo’s knee a slight cut from which blood trickled.

“It is nothing,” I said, “a scratch, no more, though had not the spear been stopped in its course it might have been otherwise.”

“Yes,” cried Zikali, “but what was it that caused the cut?  Take this, Sigananda, and tell me what it may be,” and he threw towards him a piece of red wood.

Sigananda looked at it.  “It is the haft of the Black One’s spear,” he exclaimed, “which the bullet of Macumazahn has severed from the blade.”

“Aye,” said Zikali, “and the blade has drawn the blood of the Black One’s child.  Read me this omen, Sigananda; or ask it of her who stands above you.”

Now all looked to the rock, but it was empty.  The figure had vanished.

“Your word, King,” said Zikali.  “Is it for peace or war?”

Cetewayo looked at the assegai, looked at the blood trickling from his knee, looked at the faces of the councillors.