Sikonile's hut was full. Sikonile's hut, being full, was exceedingly
close and stuffy. Moreover, it was thick with tobacco smoke; for,
unlike the Zulus, both men and women of the Xosa tribes were great
smokers, and so thick was the cloud, having no egress but by percolating
through the thatch roof, that none but Kafir eyes could have remained
open in it for two consecutive minutes. This, with the foetid, musky,
human odour combined with that of more or less rancid grease, would have
sent the ordinary white man promptly outside, feeling very sea-sick
indeed. No white man, however, was there; incidentally a very lucky
thing for the white man, and that for other reasons than the one just
given.
Sikonile was an elderly Kafir, and the expression of his massive,
bearded countenance was scowling and vindictive as he sat gloomily
puffing at his long-stemmed angular pipe. And this was scarcely
wonderful, seeing that he was the father of Nzinto, the man whom Harley
Greenoak had just shot dead. The fact that the deceased had brought his
fate upon his own head did not count for much towards mending matters.
"The people might as well lie down again," he was saying, continuing the
debate, which had already reached a heated pitch. "`It is not healthy
to attempt to snatch a gun from the hand of Kulondeka,'" he quoted, with
a sneer. "_Hau_! Had I been there then, Kulondeka would have found it
`not healthy' to shoot down the children of Gaika, here in their own
home. Yet, a number of us, all armed, slunk away like stoned curs.
_Hau_! like stoned and beaten curs!"