"And such call themselves men. And they all slink away before one.
Men! _Hau_! I call them dogs. And if they slink away before one
white, what will they do when many whites are arrayed against them?
What is all this talk about driving the whites into the sea when they
are afraid of a single one, alone in their midst? Why, our women would
make better warriors than they."
Most of those present, elderly or middle-aged men themselves, had sons
who had been among the uproarious demonstrators; and liked not the
contemptuous denunciation of the speaker. One now spoke.
"Not at the bidding of the white man did they hold their hands,
Sikonile, but at the word of the chief."
"The word of the chief," echoed Sikonile, sneeringly savage. "_Au_! but
Matanzima is not a chief. He is the son of the Great Chief, but he is a
boy."
"Yet he is the one to whom all these look up," put in another. "The
time to take vengeance was not yet."
"Not yet? But will it ever be?" cried Sikonile, flinging out an arm and
glaring around. "You are all afraid of this white man--afraid. _Hau_!"
The disgust and contempt of his tone, especially as conveyed by the last
exclamation, stung them somewhat.
"Kulondeka is no ordinary white man," said some one, sullenly. "There
is that of _tagati_ about him. Many have tried to kill him, and he is
still alive. But--where are they?"
"Cowards all! Fools and cowards! They deserved their death," was the
fierce rejoinder.
"Yet, brother," went on the one who had spoken last, "Kulondeka is here
among us alone. It is thy son whom he has killed, but thou hast other
sons. Matanzima is no chief--only the child of one. Yonder is his hut,
and the white man is here. Now take thy other sons, and go and kill
him."
There was a touch of mockery in the tone. The words were, in fact, a
challenge. Sikonile leapt to his feet.
"That will I do!" he blared forth, gesticulating with anger, for he was
worked up to a blaze of revengeful exaltation. "That will I do!" And
tearing down a bundle of assegais which hung against the side of the
hut, he made for the door. But before he could gain it another voice
spoke.
"Pause, brother. I have a better plan than that."
The angry man paused.
"A better plan!" he sneered. "Plans--always plans! _Whau_! I like not
such. We have heard too much of plans lately. It is now time to act.
One act is worth ten times ten plans. Yet, what is thy `plan,'
Mafutana?"
"Hear it then, Sikonile. What sort of poor revenge would it be to kill
Kulondeka, to kill him at once so that he feels nothing, and to get
thyself and thy sons killed for violating the house of the son of the
Great Chief--for this is surely what would happen? Should we not rather
collect our sons together, and, stealing out from the kraals by twos and
threes, meet after dark, and take him when he leaves to-night to return
home? For he will leave to-night."
A murmur of applause met this proposal. The vengeful father was
impressed.
"Why, that is something of a plan," he said. "But what if it should
fail? Yet, it should not."
"It should not, for it will be easy," was the answer. "We can ambush
every way by which he will leave. Then, think what your revenge will
be. We will carry him to the `Place of the Bones,' and spend the night
burning him alive, even as we did the traitor Nemvu. _Whau_! what an
end for Kulondeka! A great, a noble end. You, Sikonile, in each of his
groans, as the fire eats into sinew and flesh and nerve, will hear the
glad laughter of Nzinto, whom he slew. Now, say. Is not my plan the
better? It will avoid trouble, for Matanzima, to whom all the fighters
look up, will never know. And, what a noble revenge it will afford
thee."
An emphatic hum of approval went up from the entire gathering. Mafutana
was a genius. And then all heads were grouped together in an eager,
under-toned discussion, and, seen through the thick, dim smoke-cloud,
the grim ferocious faces were as those of demons exulting over the
torment of a newly acquired soul.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harley Greenoak awoke at sundown, aroused by a light touch from his
host, who had been watching carefully over his safety.
"It is nearly time to depart, Kulondeka," said the latter. "To have
done so earlier would not have been safe, to remain later would not be
safe either; for, bear in mind, I am not the Great Chief, but only his
child. And he has other children."
There was significance in this. The very short twilight--for darkness
falls suddenly under Southern skies--was used by Greenoak in solemnly
repeating his former warnings. Then, when it was dark enough, they went
outside, where the horse was already standing, all ready and saddled.
"Fare thee well, son of the Great Chief," said Greenoak as he mounted.
"My heart is sore for thee and the people if my words pass unheeded. I
can say no more."