“Oh! no,” I broke in hurriedly, “I assure you that you are mistaken.  I believe every word you have said, or say or will say; I do in truth.”

“Now thou liest.  Well, what is one more falsehood among so many?  Let it pass.”

“What, indeed?” I echoed in eager affirmation, “and as for Zikali’s message——­” and I paused.

“It was to recall to my mind that he desired to learn whether a certain great enterprise of his will succeed, the details of which he says thou canst tell me.  Repeat them to me.”

So, glad enough to get away from more dangerous topics, I narrated to her as briefly and clearly as I could, the history of the old witch-doctor’s feud with the Royal House of Zululand.  She listened, taking in every word, and said,

“So now he yearns to know whether he will conquer or be conquered; and that is why he sent, or thinks that he sent thee on this journey, not for thy sake, Allan, but for his own.  I cannot tell thee, for what have I do to with the finish of this petty business, which to him seems so large?  Still, as I owe him a debt for luring the Axe-Bearer here to rid me of mine enemy, and thee to lighten my solitude for an hour by the burnishing of thy mind, I will try.  Set that bowl before me, Allan,” and she pointed to a marble tripod on which stood a basin half full of water, “and come, sit close by me and look into it, telling me what thou seest.”

I obeyed her instructions and presently found myself with my head over the basin, staring into the water in the exact attitude of a person who is about to be shampooed.

“This seems rather foolish,” I said abjectly, for at that moment I resembled the Queen of Sheba in one particular, if in no other, namely, that there was no more spirit in me.  “What am I supposed to do?  I see nothing at all.”

“Look again,” she said, and as she spoke the water grew clouded.  Then on it appeared a picture.  I saw the interior of a Kaffir hut dimly lighted by a single candle set in the neck of a bottle.  To the left of the door of the hut was a bedstead and on it lay stretched a wasted and dying man, in whom, to my astonishment, I recognised Cetywayo, King of the Zulus.  At the foot of the bed stood another man—­myself grown older by many years, and leaning over the bed, apparently whispering into the dying man’s ear, was a grotesque and malevolent figure which I knew to be that of Zikali, Opener-of-Roads, whose glowing eyes were fixed upon the terrified and tortured face of Cetywayo.  All was as it happened afterwards, as I have written down in the book called “Finished.”

I described what I saw to Ayesha, and while I was doing so the picture vanished away, so that nothing remained save the clear water in the marble bowl.  The story did not seem to interest her; indeed, she leaned back and yawned a little.