“Yet shall I kill it,” I said quietly.

The old man smiled.  “That my lord cannot do,” he answered.

I raised the rifle and covered the buck.  It was a small animal, and one which a man might well be excused for missing, but I knew that it would not do to miss.

I drew a deep breath, and slowly pressed on the trigger.  The buck stood still as a stone.

“Bang! thud!” The antelope sprang into the air and fell on the rock dead as a door nail.

A groan of simultaneous terror burst from the group before us.

“If you want meat,” I remarked coolly, “go fetch that buck.”

The old man made a sign, and one of his followers departed, and presently returned bearing the klipspringer.  I noticed with satisfaction that I had hit it fairly behind the shoulder.  They gathered round the poor creature’s body, gazing at the bullet-hole in consternation.

“Ye see,” I said, “I do not speak empty words.”

There was no answer.

“If ye yet doubt our power,” I went on, “let one of you go stand upon that rock that I may make him as this buck.”

None of them seemed at all inclined to take the hint, till at last the king’s son spoke.

“It is well said.  Do thou, my uncle, go stand upon the rock.  It is but a buck that the magic has killed.  Surely it cannot kill a man.”

The old gentleman did not take the suggestion in good part.  Indeed, he seemed hurt.

“No! no!” he ejaculated hastily, “my old eyes have seen enough.  These are wizards, indeed.  Let us bring them to the king.  Yet if any should wish a further proof, let him stand upon the rock, that the magic tube may speak with him.”

There was a most general and hasty expression of dissent.

“Let not good magic be wasted on our poor bodies,” said one; “we are satisfied.  All the witchcraft of our people cannot show the like of this.”

“It is so,” remarked the old gentleman, in a tone of intense relief; “without any doubt it is so.  Listen, children of the Stars, children of the shining Eye and the movable Teeth, who roar out in thunder, and slay from afar.  I am Infadoos, son of Kafa, once king of the Kukuana people.  This youth is Scragga.”

“He nearly scragged me,” murmured Good.

“Scragga, son of Twala, the great king—­Twala, husband of a thousand wives, chief and lord paramount of the Kukuanas, keeper of the great Road, terror of his enemies, student of the Black Arts, leader of a hundred thousand warriors, Twala the One-eyed, the Black, the Terrible.”

“So,” said I superciliously, “lead us then to Twala.  We do not talk with low people and underlings.”

“It is well, my lords, we will lead you; but the way is long.  We are hunting three days’ journey from the place of the king.  But let my lords have patience, and we will lead them.”