“Burn him, white lords, and show him that I am right,” exclaimed the exasperated Babemba, after which they fell to wrangling.  Evidently they were rivals, and by this time both of them had lost their tempers.

The sun was now very hot, quite sufficiently so to enable us to give Mr. Imbozwi a taste of our magic, which I determined he should have.  Not being certain whether an ordinary mirror would really reflect enough heat to scorch, I drew from my pocket a very powerful burning-glass which I sometimes used for the lighting of fires in order to save matches, and holding the mirror in one hand and the burning-glass in the other, I worked myself into a suitable position for the experiment.  Babemba and the witch-doctor were arguing so fiercely that neither of them seemed to notice what I was doing.  Getting the focus right, I directed the concentrated spark straight on to Imbozwi’s greased top-knot, where I knew he would feel nothing, my plan being to char a hole in it.  But as it happened this top-knot was built up round something of a highly inflammable nature, reed or camphor-wood, I expect.  At any rate, about thirty seconds later the top-knot was burning like a beautiful torch.

“Ow!” said the Kaffirs who were watching.  “My Aunt!” exclaimed Stephen.  “Look, look!” shouted Babemba in tones of delight.  “Now will you believe, O blown-out bladder of a man, that there are greater magicians than yourself in the world?”

“What is the matter, son of a dog, that you make a mock of me?” screeched the unfuriated Imbozwi, who alone was unaware of anything unusual.

As he spoke some suspicion rose in his mind which caused him to put his hand to his top-knot, and withdraw it with a howl.  Then he sprang up and began to dance about, which of course only fanned the fire that had now got hold of the grease and gum.  The Zulus applauded; Babemba clapped his hands; Stephen burst into one of his idiotic fits of laughter.  For my part I grew frightened.  Near at hand stood a large wooden pot such as the Kaffirs make, from which the coffee kettle had been filled, that fortunately was still half-full of water.  I seized it and ran to him.

“Save me, white lord!” he howled.  “You are the greatest of magicians and I am your slave.”

Here I cut him short by clapping the pot bottom upwards on his burning head, into which it vanished as a candle does into an extinguisher.  Smoke and a bad smell issued from beneath the pot, the water from which ran all over Imbozwi, who stood quite still.  When I was sure the fire was out, I lifted the pot and revealed the discomfited wizard, but without his elaborate head-dress.  Beyond a little scorching he was not in the least hurt, for I had acted in time; only he was bald, for when touched the charred hair fell off at the roots.

“It is gone,” he said in an amazed voice after feeling at his scalp.

“Yes,” I answered, “quite.  The magic shield worked very well, did it not?”