“Consulting their Oracle; perhaps as to whether we should live or die, Macumazana.”

Just then the priest in the strange, feathered attire approached the king, carrying some small object in his hand.  I wondered what it could be, till the sound of a report reached my ears and I saw the man begin to jump round upon one leg, holding the other with both his hands at the knee and howling loudly.

“Ah!” I said, “that pistol was full cocked, and the bullet got him in the foot.”

Simba shouted out something, whereon a man picked up the pistol and threw it into the fire, round which the others gathered to watch it burn.

“You wait,” I said to Marut, and as I spoke the words the inevitable happened.

Off went the other barrel of the pistol, which hopped out of the fire with the recoil like a living thing.  But as it happened one of the assistant priests was standing in front of the mouth of that barrel, and he also hopped once, but never again, for the heavy bullet struck him somewhere in the body and killed him.  Now there was consternation.  Everyone ran away, leaving the dead man lying on the ground.  Simba led the rout and the head-priest brought up the rear, skipping along upon one leg.

Having observed these events, which filled me with an unholy joy, we descended into the house again as there was nothing more to see, also because it occurred to me that our presence on the roof, watching their discomfiture, might irritate these savages.  About ten minutes later the gate of the fence round the guest-house was thrown open, and through it came four men carrying on a stretcher the body of the priest whom the bullet had killed, which they laid down in front of our door.  Then followed the king with an armed guard, and after him the befeathered diviner with his foot bound up, who supported himself upon the shoulders of two of his colleagues.  This man, I now perceived, wore a hideous mask, from which projected two tusks in imitation of those of an elephant.  Also there were others, as many as the space would hold.

The king called to us to come out of the house, which, having no choice, we did.  One glance at him showed me that the man was frantic with fear, or rage, or both.

“Look upon your work, magicians!” he said in a terrible voice, pointing first to the dead priest, then to the diviner’s wounded foot.

“It is no work of ours, King Simba,” answered Marut.  “It is your own work.  You stole the magic weapon of the white lord and made it angry, so that it has revenged itself upon you.”

“It is true,” said Simba, “that the tube has killed one of those who took it away from you and wounded the other” (here was luck indeed).  “But it was you who ordered it to do so, magicians.  Now, hark!  Yesterday I promised you safety, that no spear should pierce your hearts and no knife come near your throats, and drank the cup of peace with you.  But you have