How delighted that ancient warrior was to hear again about the sacred cave, the Crocodile Water, the Mountain Forest and its terrible god, of the death of which and of the Motombo he made me tell him the story three times over.  At the conclusion of the third recital he said quietly: 

“My lord Macumazana, you are a great man, and I am glad to have lived if only to know you.  No one else could have done these deeds.”

Of course I was complimented, but felt bound to point out Hans’s share in our joint achievement.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, “the Spotted Snake, Inhlatu, has the cunning to scheme, but you have the power to do, and what is the use of a brain to plot without the arm to strike?  The two do not go together because the plotter is not a striker.  His mind is different.  If the snake had the strength and brain of the elephant, and the fierce courage of the buffalo, soon there would be but one creature left in the world.  But the Maker of all things knew this and kept them separate, my lord Macumazana.”

I thought, and still think, that there was a great deal of wisdom in this remark, simple as it seems.  Oh! surely many of these savages whom we white men despise, are no fools.

After about an hour’s march we camped till the moon rose which it did at ten o’clock, when we went on again till near dawn, as it was thought better that Stephen should travel in the cool of the night.  I remember that our cavalcade, escorted before, behind and on either flank by the Mazitu troops with their tall spears, looked picturesque and even imposing as it wound over those wide downs in the lovely and peaceful light of the moon.

There is no need for me to set out the details of the rest of our journey, which was not marked by any incident of importance.

Stephen bore it very well, and Brother John, who was one of the best doctors I ever met, gave good reports of him, but I noted that he did not seem to get any stronger, although he ate plenty of food.  Also, Miss Hope, who nursed him, for her mother seemed to have no taste that way, informed me that he slept but little, as indeed I found out for myself.

“O Allan,” she said, just before we reached Beza Town, “Stephen, your son” (she used to call him my son, I don’t know why) “is sick.  The father says it is only the spear-hurt, but I tell you it is more than the spear-hurt.  He is sick in himself,” and the tears that filled her grey eyes showed me that she spoke what she believed.  As a matter of fact she was right, for on the night after we reached the town, Stephen was seized with an attack of some bad form of African fever, which in his weak state nearly cost him his life, contracted, no doubt, at that unhealthy Crocodile Water.

Our reception at Beza was most imposing, for the whole population, headed by old Bausi himself, came out to meet us with loud shouts of welcome, from which we had to ask them to desist for Stephen’s sake.