Here Umslopogaas passed his hand across his mouth, a significant gesture amongst the Zulus.

“Mopo,” I said, “yes, I have heard the story of Mopo, also that Chaka’s body became his servant in the end, since Mopo killed him with the help of the princes Dingaan and Umhlangana.  Also I have heard that this Mopo still lives, though not in Zululand.”

“Does he, Macumazahn?” said Umslopogaas, taking snuff from a spoon and looking at me keenly over the spoon.  “You seem to know a great deal, Macumazahn; too much as some might think.”

“Yes,” I answered, “perhaps I do know too much, or at any rate more than I want to know.  For instance, O fosterling of Mopo and son of—­was the lady named Baleka?—­I know a good deal about you.”

Umslopogaas stared at me and laying his hand upon the great axe, half rose.  Then he sat down again.

“I think that this,” and I touched the image of Zikali upon my breast, “would turn even the blade of the axe named Groan-maker,” I said and paused.  As nothing happened, I went on, “For instance, again I think I know—­or have I dreamed it?—­that a certain chief, whose mother’s name I believe was Baleka—­by the way, was she not one of Chaka’s ’sisters’?—­has been plotting against that son of Panda who sits upon the throne, and that his plots have been betrayed, so that he is in some danger of his life.”

“Macumazahn,” said Umslopogaas hoarsely, “I tell you that did you not wear the Great Medicine on your breast, I would kill you where you sit and bury you beneath the floor of the hut, as one who knows—­too much.”

“It would be a mistake, Umslopogaas, one of the many that you have made.  But as I do wear the Medicine, the question does not arise, does it?”

Again he made no answer and I went on, “And now, what about this journey to the north?  If indeed I must make it, would you wish to accompany me?”

Umslopogaas rose from the stool and crawled out of the hut, apparently to make some inspection.  Presently he returned and remarked that the night was clear although there were heavy storm clouds on the horizon, by which I understood him to convey in Zulu metaphor that it was safe for us to talk, but that danger threatened from afar.

“Macumazahn,” he said, “we speak under the blanket of the Opener-of-Roads who sits upon your heart, and whose sign you bring to me, as he sent me word that you would, do we not?”

“I suppose so,” I answered.  “At any rate we speak as man to man, and hitherto the honour of Macumazahn has not been doubted in Zululand.  So if you have anything to say, Chief Bulalio, say it at once, for I am tired and should like to eat and rest.”