Now I stared hard at the looking-glass and answered coolly: 

“This magic shield tells a somewhat different story.  It says that your king, Bausi, for whom by the way we have many things as presents, told you to lead us to him with honour, that we might talk over matters with him.”

The shot was a good one.  Babemba grew confused.

“It is true,” he stammered, “that—­I mean, the king left it to my judgment.  I will consult the witch-doctor.”

“If he left it to your judgment, the matter is settled,” I said, “since certainly, being so great a noble, you would never try to murder those of whose holy drink you have just partaken.  Indeed if you did so,” I added in a cold voice, “you would not live long yourself.  One secret word and that drink will turn to mwavi of the worst sort inside of you.”

“Oh! yes, white lord, it is settled,” exclaimed Babemba, “it is settled.  Do not trouble the secret word.  I will lead you to the king and you shall talk with him.  By my head and my father’s spirit you are safe from me.  Still, with your leave, I will call the great doctor, Imbozwi, and ratify the agreement in his presence, and also show him the magic shield.”

So Imbozwi was sent for, Jerry taking the message.  Presently he arrived.  He was a villainous-looking person of uncertain age, humpbacked like the picture of Punch, wizened and squint-eyed.  His costume was of the ordinary witch-doctor type being set off with snake skins, fish bladders, baboon’s teeth and little bags of medicine.  To add to his charms a broad strip of pigment, red ochre probably, ran down his forehead and the nose beneath, across the lips and chin, ending in a red mark the size of a penny where the throat joins the chest.  His woolly hair also, in which was twisted a small ring of black gum, was soaked with grease and powdered blue.  It was arranged in a kind of horn, coming to a sharp point about five inches above the top of the skull.  Altogether he looked extremely like the devil.  What was more, he was a devil in a bad temper, for the first words he said embodied a reproach to us for not having asked him to partake of our “holy drink” with Babemba.

We offered to make him some more, but he refused, saying that we should poison him.

Then Babemba set the matter out, rather nervously I thought, for evidently he was afraid of this old wizard, who listened in complete silence.  When Babemba explained that without the king’s direct order it would be foolish and unjustifiable to put to death such magicians as we were, Imbozwi spoke for the first time, asking why he called us magicians.

Babemba instanced the wonders of the shining shield that showed pictures.

“Pooh!” said Imbozwi, “does not calm water or polished iron show pictures?”

“But this shield will make fire,” said Babemba.  “The white lords say it can burn a man up.”

“Then let it burn me up,” replied Imbozwi with ineffable contempt, “and I will believe that these white men are magicians worthy to be kept alive, and not common slave-traders such as we have often heard of.”