“Yes, yes,” screeched Imbozwi.  “If Dogeetah comes, as that false wizard prophesies,” and he pointed to Mavovo, “then I shall be ready to die in your place, white slave-dealers.  Yes, yes, then you may shoot me with arrows.”

“King, take note of those words, and people, take note of those words, that they may be fulfilled if Dogeetah comes,” said Mavovo in a great, deep voice.

“I take note of them,” answered Bausi, “and I swear by my mother on behalf of all the people, that they shall be fulfilled—­if Dogeetah comes.”

“Good,” exclaimed Mavovo, and stalked on to the stake which had been pointed out to him.

As he went he whispered something into Imbozwi’s ear that seemed to frighten that limb of Satan, for I saw him start and shiver.  However, he soon recovered, for in another minute he was engaged in superintending those whose business it was to lash us to the posts.

This was done simply and effectively by tying our wrists with a grass rope behind these posts, each of which was fitted with two projecting pieces of wood that passed under our arms and practically prevented us from moving.  Stephen and I were given the places of honour in the middle, the Union Jack being fixed, by his own request, to the top of Stephen’s stake.  Mavovo was on my right, and the other Zulus were ranged on either side of us.  Hans and Sammy occupied the end posts respectively (except those to which the poor jackasses were bound).  I noted that Hans was already very sleepy and that shortly after he was fixed up, his head dropped forward on his breast.  Evidently his medicine was working, and almost I regretted that I had not taken some while I had the chance.

When we were all fastened, Imbozwi came round to inspect.  Moreover, with a piece of white chalk he made a round mark on the breast of each of us; a kind of bull’s eye for the archers to aim at.

“Ah! white man,” he said to me as he chalked away at my shooting coat, “you will never burn anyone’s hair again with your magic shield.  Never, never, for presently I shall be treading down the earth upon you in that hole, and your goods will belong to me.”

I did not answer, for what was the use of talking to this vile brute when my time was so short.  So he passed on to Stephen and began to chalk him.  Stephen, however, in whom the natural man still prevailed, shouted: 

“Take your filthy hands off me,” and lifting his leg, which was unfettered, gave the painted witch-doctor such an awful kick in the stomach, that he vanished backwards into the grave beneath him.

“Ow! Well done, Wazela!” said the Zulus, “we hope that you have killed him.”

“I hope so too,” said Stephen, and the multitude of spectators gasped to see the sacred person of the head witch-doctor, of whom they evidently went in much fear, treated in such a way.  Only Babemba grinned, and even the king Bausi did not seem displeased.