ng up Africa--had
revived in the king the incoherent and grandiose dreams of his youth.
In this captive, whom he would some day make his brother, co-priest,
and fellow general, he had found the knowledge to supplement his force,
and make himself invincible.

So, night after night he repeated the same plea, sitting in the royal
pavilion, across the fire from the white man whose guards had been sent
out of doors.

Muene-Motapa was tall, muscular, bold of gesture and fierce of face.
His word was life and death. Day and night he was surrounded by
chiefs, councilors, wizards, and royal ladies who roared with laughter
when he smiled, gnashed their teeth when he frowned, accompanied his
every comment with moans of admiration and a soft snapping of their
fingers. They were round him now, aligned against the wattled walls,
behind the film of wood smoke; breathlessly awaiting the sound of his
deep voice.

He began, in a chanting tone, to rehearse the past glories of the
blacks. He spoke of that great ancestor of his, that other
Muene-Motapa, whose kingdom had extended from the country of the
Bushmen to the Indian Ocean, and from Nyasaland to Delagoa Bay. Then
the white men had come.

"The flies destroyed the horses. The fevers burned up the men. Those
who survived, my forefathers pierced with their spears. Have I shown
you the trophies, Bangana, the hats of steel, the corselets of steel,
the guns that one fires by lighting a string? My forefathers gave
those things to their children for toys, and grass grew through the
bones of those white men. But there came more, and more, and more,
swarming over all the land, till now my country alone is free from
them. Shall that be? Have I eaten rabbits? Am I some village
headman? When I stamp my foot seven thousand spearmen spring from the
ground. I am Muene-Motapa!"

In the crimson glow from the ashes the chieftains, the councilors, and
the wizards raised their faces which were convulsed with rage. The
wattled walls hurled back a deafening chorus of war cries.

The king drank from a gourdful of cashew-brandy, wiped his lips, and
shouted:

"Consent, Bangana! Consent, Mfondolo, who might be my brother lion,
pouncing upon army after army, as the lion pounces upon the antelope.
I have shown you the Zimbabwe, the stone cities of the ancients. With
slaves we will dig the gold out of the quartz reefs, buy guns from the
Arabs, and drive these little yellow-skinned white