dream through the arts of a child of mine who is named Nombe, she to whom I have given a Spirit to guide her feet.  You did well to follow it, Macumazahn, for had you tried the other path, which would have led you back to the towns of the white men, you and those with you must have been killed, how it does not matter.  Now by the mouth of Nombe I say to you, do not follow the thought that is in your mind as she speaks to you and go to Natal, since if you do so, you and those with you will come to much shame and trouble that to you would be worse than death, over the matter of the killing of a certain white doctor in a swamp where grow yellow-wood trees.  For there in Natal you will be taken, all of you, and sent back to the Transvaal to be tried before a man who wears upon his head horse’s hair stained white.  But if you come to Zululand this shadow shall pass away from you, since great things are about to happen which will cause so small a matter to be forgot.  Moreover, I Zikali, who do not lie, promise this:  That however great may be their dangers here in Zululand, those half-fledged ones whom you, the old night-hawk, cover with your wings, shall in the end suffer no harm; those of whom I spoke to you in your dream, the white lord, Mauriti, and the white lady, Heddana, who stretch out their arms one to another.  I wait to welcome you, here at the Black Kloof, whither my daughter Nombe will guide you.  Cetewayo, the king, also will welcome you, and so will another whose name I do not utter.  Now choose.  I have spoken.’”

Having delivered her message Nombe stood quite still, smiling as before, and apparently indifferent as to its effect.

“How do I know that you come from Zikali?” I asked.  “You may be but the bait set upon a trap.”

From somewhere within her robe she produced a knife and handed it to me, remarking—­

“The Master says you will remember this, and by it know that the message comes from him.  He bade me add that with it was carved a certain image that once he gave to you at Panda’s kraal, wrapped round with a woman’s hair, which image you still have.”

I looked at the knife and did remember it, for it was one of those of Swedish make with a wooden handle, the first that I had ever seen in Africa.  I had made a present of it to Zikali when I returned to Zululand before the war between the Princes.  The image, too, I still possessed.  It was that of the woman called Mameena who brought about the war, and the wrapping which covered it was of the hair that once grew upon her head.

“The words are Zikali’s,” I said, returning her the knife, “but why do you call yourself the child of one who is too old to be a father?”

“The Master says that my great-grandmother was his daughter and that therefore I am his child.  Now, Macumazahn, I go to eat with my people, for I have servants with me.  Then I must speak with the Swazi king, for whom I also have a message, which I cannot do at present because he is still drunk with the white man’s liquor.  After that I shall be ready to return with you to Zululand.”