that Elephant who fell by `the stroke of Sopuza,'
when your fathers were children," went on the old man, "Dingana, who
scourged the Amabuna as a whip-lash scourges an ox, until he had to take
flight when our nation was divided. But then the guns of the Amabuna
shot but feebly and there was opportunity to run in and make an end.
But now, when the white man's bullets fall thick as the stones in the
fiercest hail storm, what chance have ye with these?" pointing to a row
of blades which awaited the binding. Whereby it will be seen that
Malemba was progressive.

Even this argument did not impress the group. They were inclined to
make very light of it.

"We will not allow them time to fire their bullets at all, my father,"
laughed another of them. "We shall eat them up while they sleep."

"But will they sleep?" said the old man, his head on one side.

"Will they not? They are asleep even now," came the answer. "We need
not even wait until night. They are scattered. We can take them at any
time--when `the word' is given."

"When `the word' is given! Ah! ah! When the word is given." And the
old man chuckled darkly.

"What means our father?"

"What I mean? What if `the word' is given too late? Or worse still--
too soon? _Ou_!"

"That will not be, my father. The chain is now forged, even as these
blades. And the whites are scattered--scattered. They lie in our
hands."

"Let them not lie there too long, or perchance they may spring out,"
returned Malemba quizzically. "Well, I have nought to do with it, I who
am old. I can but make you the weapons, it is for yourselves to wield
them. And most of you have never learned the art. You were born too
late."

A laugh went up at this. The old assegai-maker was looked upon with the
greatest veneration. His wisdom was recognised and appreciated. But to
these young bloods, fed up of late on conspiracy, and yearning to prove
themselves worthy of their warrior ancestors, mere wisdom was at a slump
just then.

"I can but make you assegais," repeated the old man. "I am too old to
wield them."

And he resumed his work, crooning, to the strokes of the hammer, a
snatch from an old war-song--

"Nantsi 'ndaba--
Indaba yemkonto!
Ji-jji! Ji-jji!"

["That is the talk. The talk of the assegais." "Ji-jji" is the
stabbing hiss.]

"These whites, they are not so powerful as we are told," said one of the
group. "I have been among them--have worked for