And after all, what was more likely in the circumstances?  Zikali had killed them, or caused them to be killed; or possibly they were killed in spite of him in obedience to the express, or general, order of the king, if the deed was not done by the Basutos.  And yet an idea occurred to me.  How about the woman on the rock that the Zulus thought was their Princess of the Heavens?  Obviously this must be nonsense, since no such deity existed, therefore the person must either have been a white woman or one painted up to resemble a white woman; seen from a distance in moonlight it was impossible to say which.  Now, if it were a white woman, she might, from her shape and height and the colour of her hair, be Heda herself.  Yet it seemed incredible that Heda, whom Kaatje had seen dead some days before, could be masquerading in such a part and make no sign of recognition to me, even when I covered her with my pistol, whereas that Nombe would play it was likely enough.

Only then Nombe must be something of a quick-change artist since but a little while before she was beyond doubt personating the dead Mameena.  If it were not so I must have been suffering from illusions, for certainly I seemed to see some one who looked like Mameena, and only Zikali, and through him Nombe, had sufficient knowledge to enable her to fill that role with such success.  Perhaps the whole business was an illusion, though if so Zikali’s powers must be great indeed.  But then how about the assegai that Nomkubulwana, or rather her effigy, had seemed to hold and throw, whereof the blade was at present in my saddle-bag.  That at any rate was tangible and real, though of course there was nothing to prove that it had really been Chaka’s famous weapon.

Another thing that tormented me was my failure to see Zikali.  I felt as though I had committed a crime in leaving Zululand without doing this and hearing from his own lips—­well, whatever he chose to tell me.  I forget if I said that while we were waiting at the gate where those silly women talked so much nonsense about Mameena and Kaatje, that I made another effort through Goza to get into touch with the wizard, but quite without avail.  Goza only answered what he said before, that if I wished to die at once I had better take ten steps towards the Valley of Bones, whence, he added parenthetically, the Opener of Roads had already departed on his homeward journey.  This might or might not be true; at any rate I could find no possible way of coming face to face with him, or even of getting a message to his ear.  No, I was not to blame; I had done all I could, and yet in my heart I felt guilty.  But then, as cynics would, say, failure is guilt.