“Oho!” laughed Zikali again.  “What do my ears hear?  Am I, the poor Zulu cheat, as you will remember once you called me, Macumazahn, asked to show that which is hidden from all the wisdom of the great White People?”

“The question is,” I answered with irritation, “not what you are asked to do, but what you can do.”

“That I do not know yet, Macumazahn.  Whose spirits do you desire to see?  If that of a woman called Mameena is one of them, I think that perhaps I whom she loved——­“[*]

     [*] For the history of Mameena see the book called “Child of
     Storm.”—­Editor.

“She is not one of them, Zikali.  Moreover, if she loved you, you paid back her love with death.”

“Which perhaps was the kindest thing I could do, Macumazahn, for reasons that you may be able to guess, and others with which I will not trouble you.  But if not hers, whose?  Let me look, let me look!  Why, there seems to be two of them, head-wives, I mean, and I thought that white men only took one wife.  Also a multitude of others; their faces float up in the water of your mind.  An old man with grey hair, little children, perhaps they were brothers and sisters, and some who may be friends.  Also very clear indeed that Mameena whom you do not wish to see.  Well, Macumazahn, this is unfortunate, since she is the only one whom I can show you, or rather put you in the way of finding.  Unless indeed there are other Kaffir women——­”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, Macumazahn, that only black feet travel on the road which I can open; over those in which ran white blood I have no power.”

“Then it is finished,” I said, rising again and taking a step or two towards the gate.

“Come back and sit down, Macumazahn.  I did not say so.  Am I the only ruler of magic in Africa, which I am told is a big country?”

I came back and sat down, for my curiosity, a great failing with me, was excited.

“Thank you, Zikali,” I said, “but I will have no dealings with more of your witch-doctors.”

“No, no, because you are afraid of them; quite without reason, Macumazahn, seeing that they are all cheats except myself.  I am the last child of wisdom, the rest are stuffed with lies, as Chaka found out when he killed every one of them whom he could catch.  But perhaps there might be a white doctor who would have rule over white spirits.”

“If you mean missionaries——­” I began hastily.

“No, Macumazahn, I do not mean your praying men who are cast in one mould and measured with one rule, and say what they are taught to say, not thinking for themselves.”

“Some of them think, Zikali.”

“Yes, and then the others fall on them with big sticks.  The real priest is he to whom the Spirit comes, not he who feeds upon its wrappings, and speaks through a mask carved by his father’s fathers.  I am a priest like that, which is why all my fellowship have hated me.”