“Oh! yes, so you did.  I had forgotten.  Here it is,” and opening his robe of fur, he showed me the hideous little talisman hanging about his neck, then added, “Would you like a copy of it, Macumazahn, to keep as a memory?  If so, I will carve one for you.”

“No,” I answered, “I should not.  Has Umslopogaas been here?”

“Yes, he has been and gone again, which is one of the reasons why I do not wish to hear your tale a second time.”

“Where to?  The Town of the People of the Axe?”

“No, Macumazahn, he came thence, or so I understood, but thither he will return no more.”

“Why not, Zikali?”

“Because after his fashion he made trouble there and left some dead behind him; one Lousta, I believe, whom he had appointed to sit on his stool as chief while he was away, and a woman called Monazi, who was his wife, or Lousta’s wife, or the wife of both of them, I forget which.  It is said that having heard stories of her—­and the ears of jealousy are long, Macumazahn—­he cut off this woman’s head with a sweep of the axe and made Lousta fight him till he fell, which the fool did almost before he had lifted his shield.  It served him right who should have made sure that Umslopogaas was dead before he wrapped himself in his blanket and took the woman to cook his porridge.”

“Where has the Axe-bearer gone?” I asked without surprise, for this news did not astonish me.

“I neither know nor care, Macumazahn.  To become a wanderer, I suppose.  He will tell you the tale when you meet again in the after-days, as I understand he thinks that you will do.[*] Hearken!  I have done with this lion’s whelp, who is Chaka over again, but without Chaka’s wit.  Yes, he is just a fighting man with a long reach, a sure eye and the trick of handling an axe, and such are of little use to me who know too many of them.  Thrice have I tried to make him till my garden, but each time he has broken the hoe, although the wage I promised him was a royal kaross and nothing less.  So enough of Umslopogaas, the Woodpecker.  Almost I wish that you had not lent him the charm, for then the King’s men would have made an end of him, who knows too much and like some silly boaster, may shout out the truth when his axe is aloft and he is full of the beer of battle.  For in battle he will live and in battle he will die, Macumazahn, as perhaps you may see one day.”

     [*] For the tale of this meeting see the book called “Allan
     Quatermain.”—­Editor.

“The fate of your friends does not trouble you over much, Opener-of-Roads,” I said with sarcasm.

“Not at all, Macumazahn, because I have none.  The only friends of the old are those whom they can turn to their own ends, and if these fail them they find others.”

“I understand, Zikali, and know now what to expect from you.”

He laughed in his strange way and answered,