“You do,” she replied even more placidly than before, “you whom that dream has brought hither—­with others.”

“You lie,” I said rudely.  “The Basutos brought me here.”

“The Watcher-by-Night is pleased to say that I lie, so doubtless I do lie,” she answered, her fixed smile deepening a little.  Then she folded her arms across her breast and remained silent.

“You are a messenger, O seer of pictures in the dust and bearer of the cup of dreams,” I said with sarcasm.  “Who sends a message by your lips for me, and what are the words of the message?”

“My Lords the Spirits spoke the message by the mouth of the master Zikali.  He sends it on to you by the lips of your servant, the doctoress Nombe.”

“Are you indeed a doctoress, being so young?” I asked, for somehow I wished to postpone the hearing of that message.

“O Macumazahn, I have heard the call, I have felt the pain in my back, I have drunk of the black medicine and of the white medicine, yes, for a whole year.  I have been visited by the multitude of Spirits and seen the shades of those who live and of those who are dead.  I have dived into the river and drawn my snake from its mud; see, its skin is about me now,” and opening the mantle she wore she showed what looked like the skin of a black mamba, fastened round her slender body.  “I have dwelt in the wilderness alone and listened to its voices.  I have sat at the feet of my master, the Opener of Roads, and looked down the road and drunk of his wisdom.  Yes, I am in truth a doctoress.”

“Well, after all this, you should be as wise as you are pretty.”

“Once before, Macumazahn, you told a maid of my people that she was pretty and she came to no good end; though to one that was great.  Therefore do not say to me that I am pretty, though I am glad that you should think so who can compare me with so many whom you have known,” and she dropped her eyes, looking a little shy.

It was the first human touch I had seen about her, and I was glad to have found a weak spot in her armour.  Moreover, from that moment she was always my friend.

“As you will, Nombe.  Now for your message.”

“My Lords the Spirits, speaking through Zikali as one who makes music speak through a pipe of reeds, say—­”

“Never mind what the spirits say.  Tell me what Zikali says,” I interrupted.

“So be it, Macumazahn.  These are the words of Zikali:  ’O Watcher-by-Night, the time draws on when the Thing-who-should-never-have-been-born will be as though he never had been born, whereat he rejoices.  But first there is much for him to do, and as he told you nearly three hundred moons ago, in what must be done you will have your part.  Of that he will speak to you afterwards.  Macumazahn, you dreamed a dream, did you not, lying asleep in the house that was built of white stone which now is black with fire?  I, Zikali, sent you that