He
might blow out his own brains. That would be quicker at any rate.

But almost immediately upon the idea came the consciousness that these
were no hostile shouts that rose booming, full-voiced, to raise the
echoes of the King's grave.

"_Kumalo!
Ho, inyoka 'nkulu!
Ho, Inyoka 'mninimamdhla!
Bayete_!"

[See Note 1.]

With a flash of returning hope, Blachland peered forth, trusting to the
combined effect of distance and shadow, to render his head invisible
from below. Two men were standing on the flat place beneath--where lay
the heaps of charred bones--two old men, with right hand uplifted and
facing the tomb--and he recognised one as Umjane, a favourite and
trusted councillor of Lo Bengula's, the other as Faku, the old induna
who had intervened when the warriors were clamouring to be allowed to
massacre the four white men on the occasion of their last visit to the
King. Now they were here to give the _nbonga_ at the grave of
Umzilikazi, and the listener's heart sank again, for he had heard that
this was a process which sometimes lasted for hours. But, as though in
compensation, he noticed that the snake had abated its fury. It had
dropped its hideous head, and lay there, in a shining, heaving coil as
the sonorous chant proceeded:

"_Ho, Inyoka 'mnyama!
Nkos' inyoka!
Inyoka-ka-Matyobane!
Ho, Inyoka yise wezulu!
Bayete_!"

[See Note 2.]

Strophe by strophe, in a sort of antiphonal fashion, the two old indunas
continued this weird litany of the Snake. Then they changed to every
kind of other title of _sibonga_, but always returning to the subject of
the serpent. But the strange part of it to the human listener, was the
calming effect it seemed to have upon the black horror, then but a few
yards off--for the brute quieted down more and more as the voices
outside were raised higher. What on earth could be the reason, thought
Blachland? There was an idea abroad that reptiles were susceptible to
music, but even if such were the case, this monotonous unvarying
intonation, never exceeding three notes, was not music. Could it be
that in reality the spirit of the dead King was transmigrated into that
serpent form? and again he recalled old Pemberton's rough and ready
words:--"There's mighty rum things happen you can't explain nor scare up
any sort of reason for." What if this were one of them? And with the
idea, and aided by time and place, a kind of superstitious dread began
to steal