“Where then is your spear, Messenger?”

“Here,” said Owen, presenting to his eyes a crucifix of ivory, most beautifully carved.

“I perceive that you are of the family of wizards,” said the man, and fell back.

Now they entered the kraal and passed for three hundred yards or more through rows of huts, till they reached the gate of the stockade, which was opened to them.  Once within it, Owen saw a wonderful sight, such a sight as few white men have seen.  The ground of the enormous oval before him was not flat.  Either from natural accident or by design it sloped gently upwards, so that the spectator, standing by the gate or at the head of it before the house of the king, could take in its whole expanse, and, if his sight were keen enough, could see every individual gathered there.

On the particular day of Owen’s arrival it was crowded with regiments, twelve of them, all dressed in their different uniforms and bearing shields to match, not one of which was less than 2500 strong.  At this moment the regiments were massed in deep lines, each battalion by itself, on either side of the broad roadway that ran straight up the kraal to where the king, his sons, his advisers and guards, together with the company of wizards, were placed in front of the royal house.

There they stood in absolute silence, like tens of thousands of bronze statues, and Owen perceived that either they were resting or that they were gathered thus to receive him.  That the latter was the case soon became evident, for as he appeared, a white spot at the foot of the slope, countless heads turned and myriads of eyes fastened themselves upon him.  For an instant he was dismayed; there was something terrifying in this numberless multitude of warriors, and the thought of the task that he had undertaken crushed his spirit.  Then he remembered, and shaking off his fear and doubt, alone, save for his disciple John, holding the crucifix aloft, he walked slowly up the wide road towards the place where he guessed that the king must be.  His arm was weary ere ever he reached it, but at length he found himself standing before a thickset old man, who was clad in leopard skins and seated upon a stool of polished wood.

“It is the king,” whispered John behind him.

“Peace be to you,” said Owen, breaking the silence.

“The wish is good, may it be fulfilled,” answered the king in a deep voice, sighing as he said the words.  “Yet yours is a strange greeting,” he added.  “Whence came you, White Man, how are you named, and what is your mission to me and to my people?”

“King, I come from beyond the sea; I am named Messenger, and my mission is to deliver to you the saying of God, my King and—­yours.”

At these words a gasp of astonishment went up from those who stood within hearing, expecting as they did to see them rewarded by instant death.  But Umsuka only said:—­

“‘My King and yours’?  Bold words, Messenger.  Where then is this King to whom I, Umsuka, should bow the knee?”