Chapter 13.

Soothsayers and Battles.

The Bangwaketse at Kgwakge — eighty miles to the west of Inzwinyani — were near relatives of the Barolong. And it was natural that their hearts were still aflame with memories of the massacre of Tauana's people and the sacking of their city. These remembrances were constantly sharpened by hints and rumours that floated across now and again, from Mzilikazi's headquarters. The Matebele were evidently meditating a raid of a similar nature upon the Bangwaketse.

Alarmed at this prospect, Chief Makabe, wise in his generation, moved with the whole of his tribe into the Kalahari desert. His timely tactics saved the situation, for, shortly afterwards, Mzilikazi's army swooped down upon the evacuated city like so many vultures thirsting for Ngwaketse blood.

Finding the place empty, and disappointed of their prey, the Matebele lost no time in tracking the fugitive tribe. Over the vales and woods of Selokolela and Sefereleleng they traced them; they followed them deep into the unknown forests of Sekoma and Khakea, — through sun-burnt desert dales that are as waterless as they are sandy. The soldiers were maddened by fatigue and heat of the thirstland, for marching and skipping through the forests, and looking for water or for stones, they saw nothing but trees, trees and sand, sand, sand all the time. And, after long and maniacally forced marches through the desert, they came upon the rearguard of Makabe's people, who, moving in their own hinterland and familiar hunting ground, had local means of averting the thirst.

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Hunger, fatigue and the broiling sun had in the meanwhile devitalized the Matebele hordes, and rendered them harmless; so that when at length they came in contact with the Bangwaketse they were too exhausted to fight; and, instead of attacking, they asked their enemy for water. Far from granting their request the Bangwaketse fell upon their enfeebled pursuers with deadly effect. After killing many of their ranks, they put the remainder to flight, and celebrated a grand victory. Hundreds of Matebele bodies lay round the battlefield as evidence that Makabe had avenged the blood of his cousins the Barolong.

It was a bad day for the majahas who had hitherto known no reverses. Many of the survivors never left the forest as they escaped the Bangwaketse spears only to succumb to hunger and thirst on their way back; and when the news reached Inzwinyani it created a painful sensation. The tidings were brought by a swift runner despatched by Muti, the Induna in charge of the Western outposts. King Mzilikazi was furious. He called his magicians together and ordered them to divine the cause of this unusual calamity.

The bonethrowers having gone through their incantations, their spokesman said: “The shadow of the massacre of Kunana had never really left our nation. Many of the fleeing Barolongs had picked the sand from the footprints of our soldiers who destroyed their city years ago; they are constantly mixing medicines with this sand and the evil influence upon the Matebele would last as long as they can remember that massacre. The power of the Barolong spell is spending itself in Inzwinyani, and the only remedy suggested by the bones is, that the King should move the nation to a far and unknown region beyond the influence of the Barolong charms. Unless this

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advice be followed, declare the bones, all the Matebele must die and their sheep and cattle with them.”

On hearing this prediction Mzilikazi called thirty more of the most noted witch-doctors from among his nation and ordered them to invent a more powerful charm and subdue the fatal spell. The witch-doctors implored the King to move the nation north, in terms of the opinion of the bone-throwers, for there their efforts would be more efficacious. Mzilikazi, becoming very angry, replied that that would be equal to flight. A Zulu, he said, had never turned his back upon trouble, and he was not going to establish the degrading precedent; therefore, unless the effects of the evil spell were subdued, the witch-doctors would be put to death. He gave them three days to find an antidote.

Turning to Muti's messenger, he who had been the bearer of the evil tidings, the King said: “Tell Muti that at the end of three days he must deliver before me every survivor of the army of cowards that disgraced me in the desert. I wish to see them every one, and if any of them fail to appear, Muti shall answer for the absentees at the peril of his neck.”

At the end of three days Mzilikazi was up at an early hour. His inkundla was full of warriors. Six Bechuana who had come in over the night, bringing tribute from the loyal Bakwena — another Bechauna tribe which venerates the crocodile — were introducted to the King by one of the indunas.

They found King Mzilikazi seated on his wooden throne, which was covered with a tiger-skin. He was warming himself near the blazing fire that subdued the biting cold of the sharp frosty morning. Facing the same fire in a semi-circle there sat to his right and to his

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left some of his indunas, awaiting the King's pleasure. The large open space was crowded by a mass of the tribe inside a ring of warriors, one end of the enclosure being filled by survivors from the misadventure of the desert, who now awaited the word that would seal their doom.

As was customary with most Native potentates of those days, the King seemed hardly interested in the things going on before him. When the six “Crocs” and their tribute were announced, he seemed as callously indifferent to their mission as though the tributes were intended for another; in fact, he proceeded to give orders and receive reports from the fops and flunkeys who shouted his praises and flitted to and fro, as though instinctively, interpreting his silent and ruthless commands.

The six Bakwena gave various interpretations to this attitude. One thing they failed to read from the King's demeanour was any evidence of satisfaction at seeing them there. They shivered as they recollected the recent and ignominious defeat suffered by his warriors at the hands of another Bechuana tribe; how foolish they thought it was of their Chief Sechele to send them to the Matebele capital after such an event. One of the Bechuana trembled as he already anticipated visions of the six of them being eviscerated at the place of slaughter, while another imagined himself incapacitated by the simultaneous stabbing of one hundred Matebele spears. These fears were not allayed by the whispered murmurings they overheard among some of the tribesmen sitting around. These were to the effect that that day was set apart for the killing of the survivors of the desert disaster — and possibly to be followed by the execution of thirty magicians unless their medicines proved strong enough to allay the King's displeasure.

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All of a sudden, something fresh arrested the attention of the assemblage and likewise ruffled the meditations of the six Bakwena. This was the appearance of two young men who were ushered to the front by a dignified Induna wearing a black ring on his head. They saluted “The Lion” and fell before the feet of the King. Immediately there arose a volume of incantations by the large number of Mbongis who sang the praises of the “Great One”. Then one of the messengers reported:

“Yesterday, O King, while the flocks were grazing on the hillsides and the Matebele boys were minding their cattle from the base, three red devils appeared as if from the skies and perched on the side of a hillock overlooking our cattle station. Each time a Matebele looked up to them there was a deafening crack, a cloud of smoke, and then a Matebele would reel over and die, bleeding from the mysterious hole in his body. One after the other they fell, for on the part of the strange devils on the hill-top, every pop projected a bullet, and every bullet had a billet, the billet in each case being the body of a helpless Matebele herd boy. There was no retaliation with these goblins for they are far — they do not come near to effect their mischief. They do it at a very safe distance. Fearing extermination the Matebele shepherds are now moving their outposts nearer home.”

A little while before this, Mzilikazi had sent one induna to ask Umnandi, his wife, for a striped squirrel skin wallet which he had handed her the previous day for safe keeping. And just at this moment the man returned and reported to the King the disquieting news that Queen Umnandi had not been seen the previous night. Several members of the household had been out on the search all morning but could find no trace of her. The

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consternation of the King upset the entire proceedings for this was the first news the King had had of Umnandi's flight.

Yet another group of men entered the ring and begged an urgent interview with the now perplexed King. This being granted, Umzungu, the spokesman of the interviewers, expressed himself in the following terms:

“Silence, silence, warriors of the Matebele, guardians of the safety of the Great One, he who is Terror of the breadth of the world, and all that dwell within it. Silence! Listen. The world is in a state of turmoil and it sadly wants mending. We are surrounded by witches of a reckless type. Our ancestors have never known their kind. They will not scruple to exterminate our nation and obliterate all trace of us, if only their skins remain intact. If they could but retain their cattle, could plough, go hunting, eat meat, and marry the prettiest daughters of Matshobana to brew beer for them, they care naught what happens to the greatness of Mzilikazi or the rest of us. Hence we find our soldiers suffering disaster in the battlefield, our cattle vanishing and our young men dying by the smoke of spirits within full view of their helpless mothers and sisters. The country reeks with sorcery, people drop dead all round us and we know not how to help them. Poisons, sorcery, witchcraft! Have not the nostrils of the indunas smelt the sorcery with which the air is fouled? There is one sorcerer I regret to say, O King, in my own family. Yesterday we were obliged to call in the aid of two magicians and, without a moment's hesitation, they smelt out my younger brother — Ngub'entsha (New Cloak) — as the cause of all the pestilence. The charm of the smellers-out is amply corroborated by our own observations, for I can assure the Great Hero, and you my chiefs,

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indunas and warriors, that since my father's death — I am certain he killed him — this upstart has entirely forgotten himself. He looks down upon his elders. I have heard him say with his own lips that he will not go to war to please anyone — no, not even the thing you call a King — (sensation) — he ignores his relatives, (cries of — Where is he? Why have you not brought him here?) — and as for me his eldest brother, he regards me as nothing but the dirt beneath his feet.”

Now these reports both vexed and perplexed King Mzilikazi who gave a sign for the speaker to cease his harangue. He called the thirty wizards into his presence, and in a thunder-like voice asked what they had done to counteract these dire fatalities. As the disconcerted wizards could offer no satisfactory explanation, orders were given for the immediate execution of them all.

“Remove these false sorcerers,” shouted Mzilikazi to one of the army leaders, “along with the successful cowards who returned from the desert yesterday and brought a cowardly report of their defeat and flight. I will have neither cowards nor liars in my city,” he said, “even if the liars pretended to live on smelling trouble. Take them far down to the ravine and leave them there.”

A scene of the wildest commotion followed this utterance, and the populace at once prepared themselves to witness an orgy of killing. When the condemned wretches were driven to the shambles, Mzilikazi rose from his court to enquire personally into the mysterious disappearance of Umnandi. “What had happened,” he wondered, “to his beautiful Queen, the one woman in his harem, or out of it for that matter, whom he adored. What could be her reason for leaving her house, had the witches been at her?”

A little later, the tumult of the surging crowd with the

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frightened faces of the condemned army, were leaving the outskirts of the town. Some of the condemned men were absolutely listless, while others laughed at the faint-heartedness of the witches (who by their machinations have so often brought down sentences of death upon others), now that they were about to be dosed with their own medicines. Two of the condemned soldiers thought it was a disgrace to be killed at the same time as such pigeon-hearted poltroons.

“Oh Fates!” exclaimed a third warrior, “is this all the reward we get for serving Mzilikazi? After all the devotion we have shown this nation and its country, marching and fighting without water and without food, the King condemns our spirits to share the life beyond with such things as these! Yet no man knows better than our Hero King that if we had had water, even without the food, we would have given an excellent account of ourselves and brought back a different tale from that bewitched desert enterprise.”

Yet said another, “What cowards these witches are? Look, look, look how they quake? The ease with which they ordered the execution of pretty-faced girls made me think they were not afraid to die. What a pity they have only one life like other people; I would like to see witches die several times over in return for the many lives they have sent to the shambles.”

Just at this moment Gubuza appeared in view.

This is the doughty leader of the armies whose acquaintance we made at the great celebration early in the story; the marching throng stopped mechanically the moment he was recognized.

“What now?” enquired Gubuza. The awful judgement being explained to him, he gave vent to his consternation in the following terms:

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“Mzilikazi knows not what he does. I am told that he has lost his pet; his favourite wife, Umnandi, vanished during the night, and he is not responsible for his actions.” A thrill of terror and astonishment ran through the crowd of warriors as the whisper passed from mouth to mouth. “Umnandi vanished during the night. Can her mystery have something to do with these death sentences on the doctors and ourselves?” queried one soldier … But Gubuza went on:

“Go and slaughter the witches according to the King's word, but spare me the soldiers, I need them, everyone. Wild devils are infesting our country and I cannot afford the spilling of a single warrior's blood except in defence of the nation. Kill the witches and go back and repeat to the 'Great One' that Gubuza took the soldiers alive to battle.”

Shouts of approbation followed this command, and hope sprang afresh in the soldiers' breasts. “Inkos! Ndab'ezita!” they cried. “Take us to battle straight away, and see how we shall fight with shields and spears and not with poisons as these hacks do.”

Now, Gubuza was the general who commanded all the armies of Mzilikazi. He was as popular among the nation as his prowess was renowned among their enemies; so that even the King could not ignore his word. Mzilikazi therefore promptly countermanded the sentence of death upon the defeated warriors.

There was a sense of general relief all through the town and country when news of the terrible judgment was succeeded by the unexpected reprieve of the soldiers. Among anxious families who had made the welkin ring with their wails and lamentations, the fame of Gubuza went up by a hundred per cent and he was renamed “Gubuza-Mkomozi” (“the Comforter”).

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There were but few to deplore the loss of the thirty witches. It was contended that members of that craft were having things too much their own way. It was also hoped that surviving magicians would henceforth bear in mind that they too were subject to the law and might not deal out death, as they pleased, to the innocent of the nation.

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Chapter 13.

Soothsayers and Battles.

The Bangwaketse at Kgwakge — eighty miles to the west of Inzwinyani — were near relatives of the Barolong. And it was natural that their hearts were still aflame with memories of the massacre of Tauana's people and the sacking of their city. These remembrances were constantly sharpened by hints and rumours that floated across now and again, from Mzilikazi's headquarters. The Matebele were evidently meditating a raid of a similar nature upon the Bangwaketse.

Alarmed at this prospect, Chief Makabe, wise in his generation, moved with the whole of his tribe into the Kalahari desert. His timely tactics saved the situation, for, shortly afterwards, Mzilikazi's army swooped down upon the evacuated city like so many vultures thirsting for Ngwaketse blood.

Finding the place empty, and disappointed of their prey, the Matebele lost no time in tracking the fugitive tribe. Over the vales and woods of Selokolela and Sefereleleng they traced them; they followed them deep into the unknown forests of Sekoma and Khakea, — through sun-burnt desert dales that are as waterless as they are sandy. The soldiers were maddened by fatigue and heat of the thirstland, for marching and skipping through the forests, and looking for water or for stones, they saw nothing but trees, trees and sand, sand, sand all the time. And, after long and maniacally forced marches through the desert, they came upon the rearguard of Makabe's people, who, moving in their own hinterland and familiar hunting ground, had local means of averting the thirst.

Hunger, fatigue and the broiling sun had in the meanwhile devitalized the Matebele hordes, and rendered them harmless; so that when at length they came in contact with the Bangwaketse they were too exhausted to fight; and, instead of attacking, they asked their enemy for water. Far from granting their request the Bangwaketse fell upon their enfeebled pursuers with deadly effect. After killing many of their ranks, they put the remainder to flight, and celebrated a grand victory. Hundreds of Matebele bodies lay round the battlefield as evidence that Makabe had avenged the blood of his cousins the Barolong.

It was a bad day for the majahas who had hitherto known no reverses. Many of the survivors never left the forest as they escaped the Bangwaketse spears only to succumb to hunger and thirst on their way back; and when the news reached Inzwinyani it created a painful sensation. The tidings were brought by a swift runner despatched by Muti, the Induna in charge of the Western outposts. King Mzilikazi was furious. He called his magicians together and ordered them to divine the cause of this unusual calamity.

The bonethrowers having gone through their incantations, their spokesman said: “The shadow of the massacre of Kunana had never really left our nation. Many of the fleeing Barolongs had picked the sand from the footprints of our soldiers who destroyed their city years ago; they are constantly mixing medicines with this sand and the evil influence upon the Matebele would last as long as they can remember that massacre. The power of the Barolong spell is spending itself in Inzwinyani, and the only remedy suggested by the bones is, that the King should move the nation to a far and unknown region beyond the influence of the Barolong charms. Unless this advice be followed, declare the bones, all the Matebele must die and their sheep and cattle with them.”

On hearing this prediction Mzilikazi called thirty more of the most noted witch-doctors from among his nation and ordered them to invent a more powerful charm and subdue the fatal spell. The witch-doctors implored the King to move the nation north, in terms of the opinion of the bone-throwers, for there their efforts would be more efficacious. Mzilikazi, becoming very angry, replied that that would be equal to flight. A Zulu, he said, had never turned his back upon trouble, and he was not going to establish the degrading precedent; therefore, unless the effects of the evil spell were subdued, the witch-doctors would be put to death. He gave them three days to find an antidote.

Turning to Muti's messenger, he who had been the bearer of the evil tidings, the King said: “Tell Muti that at the end of three days he must deliver before me every survivor of the army of cowards that disgraced me in the desert. I wish to see them every one, and if any of them fail to appear, Muti shall answer for the absentees at the peril of his neck.”

At the end of three days Mzilikazi was up at an early hour. His inkundla was full of warriors. Six Bechuana who had come in over the night, bringing tribute from the loyal Bakwena — another Bechauna tribe which venerates the crocodile — were introducted to the King by one of the indunas.

They found King Mzilikazi seated on his wooden throne, which was covered with a tiger-skin. He was warming himself near the blazing fire that subdued the biting cold of the sharp frosty morning. Facing the same fire in a semi-circle there sat to his right and to his left some of his indunas, awaiting the King's pleasure. The large open space was crowded by a mass of the tribe inside a ring of warriors, one end of the enclosure being filled by survivors from the misadventure of the desert, who now awaited the word that would seal their doom.

As was customary with most Native potentates of those days, the King seemed hardly interested in the things going on before him. When the six “Crocs” and their tribute were announced, he seemed as callously indifferent to their mission as though the tributes were intended for another; in fact, he proceeded to give orders and receive reports from the fops and flunkeys who shouted his praises and flitted to and fro, as though instinctively, interpreting his silent and ruthless commands.

The six Bakwena gave various interpretations to this attitude. One thing they failed to read from the King's demeanour was any evidence of satisfaction at seeing them there. They shivered as they recollected the recent and ignominious defeat suffered by his warriors at the hands of another Bechuana tribe; how foolish they thought it was of their Chief Sechele to send them to the Matebele capital after such an event. One of the Bechuana trembled as he already anticipated visions of the six of them being eviscerated at the place of slaughter, while another imagined himself incapacitated by the simultaneous stabbing of one hundred Matebele spears. These fears were not allayed by the whispered murmurings they overheard among some of the tribesmen sitting around. These were to the effect that that day was set apart for the killing of the survivors of the desert disaster — and possibly to be followed by the execution of thirty magicians unless their medicines proved strong enough to allay the King's displeasure.

All of a sudden, something fresh arrested the attention of the assemblage and likewise ruffled the meditations of the six Bakwena. This was the appearance of two young men who were ushered to the front by a dignified Induna wearing a black ring on his head. They saluted “The Lion” and fell before the feet of the King. Immediately there arose a volume of incantations by the large number of Mbongis who sang the praises of the “Great One”. Then one of the messengers reported:

“Yesterday, O King, while the flocks were grazing on the hillsides and the Matebele boys were minding their cattle from the base, three red devils appeared as if from the skies and perched on the side of a hillock overlooking our cattle station. Each time a Matebele looked up to them there was a deafening crack, a cloud of smoke, and then a Matebele would reel over and die, bleeding from the mysterious hole in his body. One after the other they fell, for on the part of the strange devils on the hill-top, every pop projected a bullet, and every bullet had a billet, the billet in each case being the body of a helpless Matebele herd boy. There was no retaliation with these goblins for they are far — they do not come near to effect their mischief. They do it at a very safe distance. Fearing extermination the Matebele shepherds are now moving their outposts nearer home.”

A little while before this, Mzilikazi had sent one induna to ask Umnandi, his wife, for a striped squirrel skin wallet which he had handed her the previous day for safe keeping. And just at this moment the man returned and reported to the King the disquieting news that Queen Umnandi had not been seen the previous night. Several members of the household had been out on the search all morning but could find no trace of her. The consternation of the King upset the entire proceedings for this was the first news the King had had of Umnandi's flight.

Yet another group of men entered the ring and begged an urgent interview with the now perplexed King. This being granted, Umzungu, the spokesman of the interviewers, expressed himself in the following terms:

“Silence, silence, warriors of the Matebele, guardians of the safety of the Great One, he who is Terror of the breadth of the world, and all that dwell within it. Silence! Listen. The world is in a state of turmoil and it sadly wants mending. We are surrounded by witches of a reckless type. Our ancestors have never known their kind. They will not scruple to exterminate our nation and obliterate all trace of us, if only their skins remain intact. If they could but retain their cattle, could plough, go hunting, eat meat, and marry the prettiest daughters of Matshobana to brew beer for them, they care naught what happens to the greatness of Mzilikazi or the rest of us. Hence we find our soldiers suffering disaster in the battlefield, our cattle vanishing and our young men dying by the smoke of spirits within full view of their helpless mothers and sisters. The country reeks with sorcery, people drop dead all round us and we know not how to help them. Poisons, sorcery, witchcraft! Have not the nostrils of the indunas smelt the sorcery with which the air is fouled? There is one sorcerer I regret to say, O King, in my own family. Yesterday we were obliged to call in the aid of two magicians and, without a moment's hesitation, they smelt out my younger brother — Ngub'entsha (New Cloak) — as the cause of all the pestilence. The charm of the smellers-out is amply corroborated by our own observations, for I can assure the Great Hero, and you my chiefs, indunas and warriors, that since my father's death — I am certain he killed him — this upstart has entirely forgotten himself. He looks down upon his elders. I have heard him say with his own lips that he will not go to war to please anyone — no, not even the thing you call a King — (sensation) — he ignores his relatives, (cries of — Where is he? Why have you not brought him here?) — and as for me his eldest brother, he regards me as nothing but the dirt beneath his feet.”

Now these reports both vexed and perplexed King Mzilikazi who gave a sign for the speaker to cease his harangue. He called the thirty wizards into his presence, and in a thunder-like voice asked what they had done to counteract these dire fatalities. As the disconcerted wizards could offer no satisfactory explanation, orders were given for the immediate execution of them all.

“Remove these false sorcerers,” shouted Mzilikazi to one of the army leaders, “along with the successful cowards who returned from the desert yesterday and brought a cowardly report of their defeat and flight. I will have neither cowards nor liars in my city,” he said, “even if the liars pretended to live on smelling trouble. Take them far down to the ravine and leave them there.”

A scene of the wildest commotion followed this utterance, and the populace at once prepared themselves to witness an orgy of killing. When the condemned wretches were driven to the shambles, Mzilikazi rose from his court to enquire personally into the mysterious disappearance of Umnandi. “What had happened,” he wondered, “to his beautiful Queen, the one woman in his harem, or out of it for that matter, whom he adored. What could be her reason for leaving her house, had the witches been at her?”

A little later, the tumult of the surging crowd with the frightened faces of the condemned army, were leaving the outskirts of the town. Some of the condemned men were absolutely listless, while others laughed at the faint-heartedness of the witches (who by their machinations have so often brought down sentences of death upon others), now that they were about to be dosed with their own medicines. Two of the condemned soldiers thought it was a disgrace to be killed at the same time as such pigeon-hearted poltroons.

“Oh Fates!” exclaimed a third warrior, “is this all the reward we get for serving Mzilikazi? After all the devotion we have shown this nation and its country, marching and fighting without water and without food, the King condemns our spirits to share the life beyond with such things as these! Yet no man knows better than our Hero King that if we had had water, even without the food, we would have given an excellent account of ourselves and brought back a different tale from that bewitched desert enterprise.”

Yet said another, “What cowards these witches are? Look, look, look how they quake? The ease with which they ordered the execution of pretty-faced girls made me think they were not afraid to die. What a pity they have only one life like other people; I would like to see witches die several times over in return for the many lives they have sent to the shambles.”

Just at this moment Gubuza appeared in view.

This is the doughty leader of the armies whose acquaintance we made at the great celebration early in the story; the marching throng stopped mechanically the moment he was recognized.

“What now?” enquired Gubuza. The awful judgement being explained to him, he gave vent to his consternation in the following terms:

“Mzilikazi knows not what he does. I am told that he has lost his pet; his favourite wife, Umnandi, vanished during the night, and he is not responsible for his actions.” A thrill of terror and astonishment ran through the crowd of warriors as the whisper passed from mouth to mouth. “Umnandi vanished during the night. Can her mystery have something to do with these death sentences on the doctors and ourselves?” queried one soldier … But Gubuza went on:

“Go and slaughter the witches according to the King's word, but spare me the soldiers, I need them, everyone. Wild devils are infesting our country and I cannot afford the spilling of a single warrior's blood except in defence of the nation. Kill the witches and go back and repeat to the 'Great One' that Gubuza took the soldiers alive to battle.”

Shouts of approbation followed this command, and hope sprang afresh in the soldiers' breasts. “Inkos! Ndab'ezita!” they cried. “Take us to battle straight away, and see how we shall fight with shields and spears and not with poisons as these hacks do.”

Now, Gubuza was the general who commanded all the armies of Mzilikazi. He was as popular among the nation as his prowess was renowned among their enemies; so that even the King could not ignore his word. Mzilikazi therefore promptly countermanded the sentence of death upon the defeated warriors.

There was a sense of general relief all through the town and country when news of the terrible judgment was succeeded by the unexpected reprieve of the soldiers. Among anxious families who had made the welkin ring with their wails and lamentations, the fame of Gubuza went up by a hundred per cent and he was renamed “Gubuza-Mkomozi” (“the Comforter”).

There were but few to deplore the loss of the thirty witches. It was contended that members of that craft were having things too much their own way. It was also hoped that surviving magicians would henceforth bear in mind that they too were subject to the law and might not deal out death, as they pleased, to the innocent of the nation.