rrival was a middle-aged ringed
man, and though he had described himself as a stranger this was only as
a term of humility. As a matter of fact he was one of Zavula's most
influential headmen.

"I see you, Nxala," said the chief. "And now? What is the news?"

There was ever so faint a twinkle in the speaker's eyes as he asked the
question, ever so ironical a _soupcon_ in his tone.

"My father, things are moving. The news is great, but not to be cried
aloud. The people are nearly ready."

"M-m! Nearly ready? Ready--for what?"

"The people are crying aloud for their father, the Chief of the
Amahluzi, but he takes no part in their councils. His voice is not
heard."

"The Chief of the Amahluzi takes no part in the councils of fools,"
returned the old man in tones of cold irony, looking through the other.

"Of fools?"

"Of fools--and worse. When children listen no more to the counsel of
their fathers then are those children undone."

Again there was silence. Then Zavula raised his voice in a hail. In
response two women appeared, and having received an order, returned in a
minute or two bearing a large bowl of _tywala_ and two smaller drinking
vessels. Into these they poured some of the liquor, which creamed up
with a pleasant frothing sound. Then, each having taken the preliminary
sip, required by native etiquette, they withdrew.

The headman took a long pull at his beer, and then another. The
firelight glowed upon the placid countenance and short white beard of
the old chief and upon the shine of the new arrival's head-ring, and
still there was silence. At last the latter spoke.

"The people are tired of the white man's exactions, my father. They
have to pay more and more, and they are tired of it. They wish to hear
the voice of their chief."

"They have heard that voice already, Nxala--not only once nor only
twice. They have heard it as foolish, rebellious children. They will
hear it no more. But the time is very near when they will wish, through
blood and through tears, that they had listened to it."

An unpleasant look flitted across the crafty face of the headman.

"But they murmur, my father," he said. "They are saying--`Lo, our
father, Zavula, is old, and he is asleep. But Babatyana is not old, and
he is awake.' So say the people."

"_Whau_, Babatyana!"

The infinite contempt in the old man's tone was quiet and cutting. The
evil look deepened in the face of the other. To hi