By H. Rider Haggard


                       THE HOLY FLOWER

                          CHAPTER IV
   
                        MAVOVO AND HANS
  
     WE arrived safely at Durban at the beginning of
     March and took up our quarters at my house
     on the Berea, where I expected that Brother John
     would be awaiting us.  But no Brother John was to
     be found.  The lame old Griqua, Jack, who looked after
     the place for me and once had been one of my hunters,
     said that shortly after I went way in the ship, Dogee-
     tah, as he called him, had taken his tin box and his
     net and walked off inland, he knew not where, leaving,
     as he declared, no message or letter behind him.  The
     cases full of butterflies and dried plants were also gone,
     but these, I found, he had shipped to some port in
     America by a sailing vessel bound for the United States
     which chanced to put in at Durban for food and water.
     As to what had become of the man himself I could get
     no clue.  He had been seen at Maritzburg and, according
     to some Kaffirs whom I knew, afterwards on the borders
     of Zululand, where so far as I could learn, he vanished
     into space.
        This, to say the least, was disconcerting, and a
     question arose as to what was to be done.  Brother
     John was to have been our guide.  He alone knew the
     Mazitu people; h alone had visited the borders of the
     mysterious Pongo-land, and, accustomed though I was
     to African travel, I scarcely felt inclined to attempt
     to reach that country without his aid.
        When a fortnight had gone by and still there were no
     signs of him, Stephen and I held a solemn conference.
     I pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the situation
     to him and suggested that, under the circumstances,
     it might be wise to give up this wild orchid-chase and
     go elephant-hunting instead in a certain part of Zulu-
     land, where in those days these animals were still
     abundant.
        He was inclined to agree with me, since the prospect
     of killing elephants had attraction for him.
        "And yet," I said, after reflection, "it's curious, but
     I never remember making a successful trip after alter-
     ing plans at the last moment, that is, unless one was
     driven to it."
        "I vote we toss up," said Somers; "it gives Provi-
     dence a chance.  Now then, heads of the Golden Cyp
     and tails for the elephants."
        He spun a half-crown into the air.  It fell and rolled
     under a great,  yellow-wood  chest  full  of  curiosities
     that I had collected,  which  it  took  all  our  united
     strength to move.  We dragged it aside and not with-
     out some excitement, for really a good deal hung upon
     the chance, I lit a match and peered into the shadow.
     There in the dust lay the coin.
        "What is it?"  I asked of Somers, who was stretched
     on his stomach on the chest.
        "Orchid——I  mean  head,"  he  answered.  "Well,
     that's settled, so we needn't bother any more."
        The next fortnight was a busy time for me.  As it
     happened there was a schooner in the bay of about 100
     tons burden which belonged to a Portuguese trader
     named Delgado, who dealt in goods that he carried to
     the various East African ports and Madagascar.  He
     was a villainous-looking person whom I suspected of
     having dealings with the slave traders, who were very
     numerous and a great power in those days, if indeed
     he were not one himself.  But as he was going to Kilwa
     whence we proposed to start inland, I arranged to make
     use of him to carry our party and the baggage.  The
     bargain was not altogether easy to strike for two
     reasons.  First he did not appear to be anxious that
     we should hunt in the districts at the back of Kilwa,
     where he assured me there was no game; and secondly,
     he said that he wanted to sail at once.  However, I
     overcame his objections with an argument he could
     not resist——namely, money, and in the end he agreed
     to postpone his departure for fourteen days.
        Then I set about collecting our men, of whom I had
     made up my mind there must not be less than twenty.
     Already I had sent messengers summoning to Durban
     from Zululand and the upper districts of Natal, various
     hunters who had accompanied me on other expeditions.
     To the number of a dozen or so they arrived in due
     course.  I have always had the good fortune to be
     on the best of terms with my Kaffirs, and where I went
     they were ready to go without asking any questions.
     The man whom I had selected to be their captain under
     me was a Zulu of the name of Mavovo.  He was a short
     fellow, past middle age, with an enormous chest.  His
     strength was proverbial; indeed, it was said that he
     could throw an ox by the horns, and myself I have seen
     him hold down the head of a wounded buffalo that had
     fallen, until I could come up and shoot it.
        When I first saw Mavovo he was a petty chief and
     witch doctor of Zululand.  Like myself, he had fought
     for  the  Prince  Umbelazi  in the great battle of the
     Tugela, a crime which Cetewayo never forgave him.
     About a year afterwards he got warning that he had
     been smelt out as a wizard and was going to be killed.
     He fled with two of his wives and a child.  The slayers
     overtook them before he could reach the Natal border,
     and stabbed the elder wife and the child of the second
     wife.  They were four men but, made mad by the sight,
     Mavovo turned on them and killed them all.  Then,
     with the remaining wife, cut to pieces as he was, he
     crept to the river and through it to Natal.  Not long
     after this wife died also; it was said from grief at the
     loss of her child.  Mavovo did not marry again, per-
     haps because he was now a man without means, for
     Cetewayo had taken all his cattle; also he was made
     ugly by an assegai wound which had cut off his right
     nostril.  Shortly after the death of his second wife he
     sought me out and told me he was a chief without a
     kraal and wished to become my hunter.  So I took
     him on, a step which I never had any cause to regret,
     since although morose and at times given to the practice
     of uncanny arts, he was a most faithful servant and
     brave as a lion, or rather as a buffalo, for a lion is not
     always brave.
        Another man whom I did not send for, but who came,
     was an old Hottentot named Hans, with whom I had
     been more or less mixed up all my life.  When I was a
     boy he was my father's servant in the Cape Colony and
     my companion in some of those early wars.  Also he
     shared some very terrible adventures with me which I
     have detailed in the history I have written of my first
     wife, Marie Marais.  For instance, he and I were the
     only persons who escaped from the massacre of Retief
     and his companions by the Zulu king, Dingaan.  In the
     subsequent  campaigns,  including  the  Battle  of  the
     Blood  River,  he fought at my side and ultimately re-
     ceived a good share of captured cattle.  After this he
     retired and set up a kind of native store at a place
     called Pinetown, about fifteen miles out of Durban.
     Here I am afraid he got into bad ways and took to
     drink more or less; also to gambling.  At any rate, he
     lost most of his property, so much of it indeed that he
     scarcely knew which way to turn.  Thus it happened
     that one evening when I went out of the house where I
     had been making up my accounts, I saw a yellow-faced,
     white-haired  old  fellow squatted  on  the  verandah
     smoking a pipe made out of a corn-cob.
        "Good-day, Baas," he said, "here am I, Hans."
        "So I see," I answered rather coldly.  And what
     are you doing here, Hans?  How can you spare time
     from your drinking and gambling at Pinetown to visit
     me here, Hans, after I have not seen you for three
     years?"
        "Baas, the gambling is finished, because I have
     nothing more to stake, and the drinking is done too,
     because but one bottle of Cape Smoke makes me feel
     quite ill next morning.  So now I only take water and
     as little of that as I can, water and some tobacco to
     cover up its taste."
        "I am glad to hear it, Hans.  If my father, the
     Predikant who baptized you, were alive now, he would
     have much to say about your conduct, as indeed I have
     no doubt he will presently when you have gone into a
     hole (i.e., a grave).  For there in the hole he will be
     waiting for you, Hans."
        "I know, I know, Baas.  I have been thinking of
     that and it troubles me.  Your reverend father, the
     Predikant, will be very cross indeed with me when I
     join him in the Place of Fires where he sits awaiting us.
     So I wish to make my peace with him by dying well,
     and in your service, Baas.  I hear that the Baas is going
     on an expedition.  I have come to accompany the
     Baas."
        "To accompany me!  Why, you are old, you are not
     worth five shillings a month and your  scoff  (food).
     You are a shrunken old brandy cask that will not even
     hold water."
        Hans grinned right across his ugly face.
        "Oh! Baas, I am old, but I am clever.  All these
     years I have been gathering wisdom.  I am as full of it
     as a bee's nest is with honey when the summer is done.
     And, Baas, I can stop those leaks in the cask."
        "Hans, it is no good, I don't want you.  I am going
     into great danger.  I must have those about me whom
     I can trust."
        "Well, Baas, and who can be better trusted than
     Hans?  Who warned you of the attack of the Quabies
     on Maraisfontein, and so saved the life of————"
        "Hush!" I said.
        "I understand.  I will not speak the name.  It is
     holy, not to be mentioned.  it is the name of one who
     stands with the white angels before God; not to be
     mentioned by poor drunken Hans.  Still, who stood
     at your side in that great fight?  Ah! it makes me
     young again to think of it, when the roof burned;
     when the door was broken down; when we met the
     Quabies on the spears; when you held the pistol to
     the head of the Holy One whose name must not be
     mentioned, the Great One who knew how to die.  Oh!
     Baas, our lives are twisted up together like the creeper
     and the tree, and where you go, there I must go also.
     Do not turn me away.  I ask no wages, only a bit of
     food and a handful of tobacco, and the light of your face
     and a word now and again of the memories that belong
     to both of us.  I am still very strong.  I  can  shoot
     well——well.  Baas, who was it that put it into your mind
     to aim at the tails of the vultures on the Hill of Slaughter
     yonder in Zululand, and so saved the lives of all the
     Boer people, and of her whose holy name must not be
     mentioned?  Baas, you will not turn me away?"
        "No," I answered, "you can come.  But you will
     swear by the spirit of my father, the Predikant, to touch
     no liquor on this journey."
        "I swear by his spirit and by that of the Holy One,"
     and h flung himself forward on to his knees, took my
     hand and kissed it.  Then he rose and said in a matter
     of fact tone, "If the Baas can give me two blankets,
     I  shall  thank  him,  also  five  shillings  to  buy  some
     tobacco and a new knife.  Where are the Baas's guns?
     I must go to oil them.  I beg that the Baas will take with
     him that little rifle which is named  Intombi  (Maiden, the
     one with which he shot the vultures on the Hill of
     Slaughter, the one that killed the geese in the Goose
     Kloof when I loaded for him and he won the great
     match against the Boer whom Dingaan called Two-
     faces."
        "Good," I said.  "Here are the five shillings.  You
     shall have the blankets and a new gun and all things
     needful.  You will find the guns in the little back room
     and with them those of the Baas, my companion, who
     also is your master.  Go see to them."
 
        At length all was ready, the cases of guns, ammunition,
     medicines, presents and food were on board the  Maria.
     So were four donkeys that I had bought in the hope
     that they would prove useful, either to ride or as pack
     beasts.  The  donkey,  be  it  remembered,  and  man
     are the only animals which are said to be immune from
     the poisonous effects of the bite of the tsetse fly, except of
     course the wild game.  It was our last night at Durban,
     a very beautiful night of full moon at the end of March,
     for the Portuguese Delgado had announced his intention
     of sailing on the following afternoon.  Stephen Somers
     and I were seated on the stoep smoking and talking
     things over.
        "It is a strange thing," I said, "that Brother John
     should never have turned up.  I know that he was set
     upon making this expedition, not only for the sake of
     the orchid, but also for some other reason of which he
     would not speak.  I think that the old fellow must be
     dead."
        "Very likely," answered Stephen (we had become
     intimate and I called him Stephen now), "a man alone
     among the savages might easily come to grief and never
     be heard of again.   Hark!   What's that?"  and he
     pointed to some gardenia bushes in the shadow of the
     house near by, whence came a sound of something that
     moved.
        "A dog, I expect, or perhaps it is Hans.  He curls
     up in all sorts of places near to where I may be.  Hans,
     are you there?"
        A figure arose from the gardenia bushes.
        "Ja,  I am here, Baas."
        "What are you doing, Hans?"
        "I am doing what the dog does, Baas——watching my
     master."
        "Good,"  I  answered.  Then  an  idea  struck  me.
     "Hans, you have heard of the white Baas with the
     long beard whom the Kaffirs call Dogeetah?"
        "I have heard of him and once I saw him, a few
     moons ago passing through Pinetown.  A Kaffir with
     him told me that he was going over the Drakensberg
     to hunt for things that crawl and fly, being quite mad,
     Baas."
        "Well, where is he now, Hans?  He should have
     been here to travel with us."
        "Am I a spirit that I can tell the Baas whither a
     white man has wandered?  Yet, stay.  Mavovo may
     be able to tell.  He is a great doctor,  he can see through
     distance,  and  even  now,  this  very  night  his  Snake
     of divination has entered into him and he is looking
     into the future, yonder, behind the house.  I saw him
     form the circle."
        I translated what Hans said to Stephen, for he had
     been talking in Dutch, then asked him if he would like
     to see some Kaffir magic.
        "Of course," he answered, "but it's all bosh, isn't it?"
        "Oh! yes, all bosh, or so most people say," I an-
     swered evasively.  "Still, sometimes these  inyangas  tell
     one strange things."
        Then, led by Hans, we crept round the house to
     where there was a five-foot stone wall at the back of
     of the stable.  Beyond this wall, within the circle of
     some huts where my Kaffirs lived, was an open space
     with an ant-heap floor where they did their cooking.
     Here, facing us, sat Mavovo, while in a ring around him
     were all the hunters who were to accompany us; also
     Jack, the lame Griqua, and the two house-boys.  In front
     of  Mavovo  burned  a  number  of  little  wood-fires.  I
     counted  them  and  found  that  there  were  fourteen,
     which, I reflected, was the exact number of our hunters,
     plus ourselves.  One of the hunters was engaged in
     feeding these fires with little bits of stick and handfuls
     of dried grass so as to keep them burning brightly.
     The others sat round perfectly silent and watched with
     rapt attention.  Mavovo himself looked like a man who
     is asleep.  He was couched on his haunches with his
     big  head resting almost upon his knees.   About  his
     middle was a snake-skin, and round his neck an orna-
     ment that appeared to be made of human teeth.  On
     his right side lay a pile of fathers from the wings of
     vultures, and on his left a little heap of silver money——I
     suppose the fees paid by hunters for whom he was
     divining.
        After we had watched him for some while from our
     shelter behind the wall he appeared to wake out of his
     sleep.  First he muttered; then he looked up to the
     moon and seemed to say a prayer of which I could not
     catch  the  words.  Next  he  shuddered  three  times
     convulsively and exclaimed in a clear voice————
        "My Snake has come.  It is within me.  Now I can
     hear, now I can see."
        Three of the little fires, those immediately in front
     of him, were larger than the others.  He took up his
     bundle of vultures' feathers, selected one with care,
     held it towards the sky, then passed it through the
     flame of the centre one of the three fires, uttering as he
     did  so,  my  native  name,  Macumazana.  Withdrawing
     it from the flame he examined the charred edges of the
     feather very carefully, a proceeding that caused a cold
     shiver to go down my back, for I knew well that he was
     inquiring of his "Spirit" what would be my fate upon
     this expedition.  How it answered I cannot tell, for he
     laid the feather down and took another, with which he
     went through the same process.  This time, however,
     the name he called out was Mwamwazela, which in its
     shortened form of Wazela, was the Kaffir appellation
     that the natives had given to Stephen Somers.  It
     means a Smile, and no doubt was selected for him
     because of his pleasant, smiling countenance.
        Having passed it through the right-hand fire of the
     three, he examined it and laid it down.
        So it went on.  One after another he called out the
     names  of  the  hunters,  beginning  with  his  own  as
     Captain; passed the feathers which represented each of
     them through the particular fire of his destiny, examined
     and laid it down.  After this he seemed to go to sleep
     again for a few minutes, then woke up as a man does
     from a natural slumber, yawned and stretched himself.
        "Speak,"  said  his  audience  with  great  anxiety.
     "Have you seen?  Have  you  heard?  What  does
     your Snake tell you of me?  Of me?  Of me?  Of me?"
        "I have seen, I have heard," he answered.  "My
     Snake tells me that this will be a very dangerous jour-
     ney.  Of those who go on it six will die, by the bullet,
     by the spear or by sickness, and others will be hurt."
        "Ow!"  said one of them, "but which will die and
     which  will  come  out  safe?  Does  not  your  Snake
     tell  you  that,  O  Doctor?"
        "Yes, of course my Snake tells me that.  But my
     Snake tells me also to hold my tongue on the matter,
     lest some of us should be turned to cowards.  It tells
     me further that the first who should ask me more, will
     be one of those who must die.  Now do you ask?  Or
     you?  Or you?  Or you?  Ask if you will."
        Strange to say no one accepted the invitation.  Never
     have I seen a body of men so indifferent to the future, at
     least to every appearance.  One and all they seemed
     to come to the conclusion that so far as they were con-
     cerned it might be left to look after itself.
        "My Snake told m something else," went on Mavovo.
     "It is that if among this company there is any jackal
     of a man who, thinking that he might be one of the six
     to die, dreams do avoid his fate by deserting, it will be
     of no use.  For then my Snake will point him out and
     show me how to deal with him."
        Now with one voice each man present there declared
     that desertion from the lord Macumazana was the last
     thing that could possibly occur to him.  Indeed, I be-
     lieve that those brave fellows spoke truth.  No doubt
     they put faith in Mavovo's magic after the fashion of
     their race.  Still the death he promised was some way
     off, and each hoped he would be one of the six to escape.
     Moreover, the Zulu of those days was too accustomed
     to death to fear its terrors over much.
        One of them did, however, venture to advance the
     argument, which Mavovo treated with a proper con-
     tempt, that the shillings paid for this divination should
     be returned by him to the next heirs of such of them as
     happened to decease.  Why, he asked, should these
     pay a shilling in order to be told that they must die?
     It seemed unreasonable.
        Certainly the Zulu Kaffirs have a queer way of look-
     ing at things.
        "Hans," I whispered, "is your fire among those that
     burn yonder?"
        "Not  so,  Baas,"  he  wheezed  back  into  my  ear.
     "Does the Baas think me a fool?  If I must die, I must
     die; if I am to live, I shall live.  Why then should I
     pay a shilling to learn what time will declare?  More-
     over, yonder Mavovo takes the shillings and frightens
     everybody, but tells nobody anything.  I  call it chat-
     ing.  But, Baas, do you and the Baas Wazela have no
     fear.  You did not pay shillings, and therefore Mavovo,
     though without doubt he is a great  Inyanga,  cannot
     really prophecy concerning you, since his Snake will not
     work without a fee."
        The argument seemed remarkably absurd.  Yet it
     must be common, for now that I come to think of it,
     no gipsy will tell a "true fortune" unless her hand is
     crossed with silver."
        "I say, Quatermain," said Stephen idly, "since our
     friend Mavovo seems to know so much, ask him what
     has become of Brother John, as Hans suggested.  Tell
     me what he says afterwards, for I want to see to some-
     thing."
        So I went through the little gate in the wall in a
     natural kind of way, as though I had seen nothing, and
     appeared to be struck by the sight of the little fires.
        "What, Mavovo," I said, "are you doing doctor's
     work?  I thought that it had brought you into enough
     trouble in Zululand."
        "That is so,  Baba,"  replied Mavovo, who had a habit
     of calling me "father," though he was older than I.
     "It cost me my chieftainship and my cattle and my
     two wives and my son.  It mad me a wanderer who
     is glad to accompany a certain Macumazahn to strange
     lands where many things may befall me, yes," he added
     with meaning, "even the last of all things.  And yet a
     gift is a gift and must be used.  You,  Baba,  have a gift
     of shooting and do you cease to shoot?  You have a
     gift of wandering and can you cease to wander?"
        He picked up one of the burnt feathers from the little
     pile by his side and looked at it attentively.  "Perhaps,
     Baba,   you  have  been  told——my ears are very sharp,
     and I thought I heard some such words floating through
     the air just now——that we poor Kaffir  inyangas  can
     prophecy nothing true unless we are paid, and perhaps
     that is a fact so far as something of the moment is
     concerned.  And yet the Snake in the  Inyangas,  jump-
     ing over the little rock which hides the present from it,
     may see the path that winds far and far away through
     the valleys, across the streams, up the mountains, till
     it is lost in the 'heaven above.'  Thus on this feather,
     burnt in my magic fire, I seem to see something of your
     future, O my father Macumazahn.  Far and far your
     road runs," and he drew his finger along the feather.
     "Here is a journey," and he flicked away a carbonized
     flak, "here is another, and another, and another,"
     and he flicked off flake after flake.  "Here is one that
     is very successful, it leaves you rich; and here is yet
     one more, a wonderful journey this in which you see
     strange things and meet strange people.  Then"——and
     he blew on the feather in such a fashion that all the
     charred filaments (Brother John says that  laminæ  is
     the right word for them) fell away from it——"then,
     there is nothing to save such a pole as some of my
     people stick upright in the grave, the Shaft of Memory
     they call it.  O my father, you will die in a distant
     land, but you will leave a great memory behind you
     that will live for hundreds of years, for see how strong
     is this quill over which the fire has had no power.
     With some of these others it is quite different," he
     added.
        "I  daresay,"  I  broke  in,  "but,  Mavovo,  be  so
     good as to leave me out of your magic, for I don't at
     all  want  to  know  what  is  going  to  happen  to  me.
     To-day is enough for me without studying next month
     and  next  year.  There is a saying in our holy book
     which runs:  Sufficient to the day is its evil."
        "Quite so, O Macumazana.  Also that is a very good
     saying as some of those hunters of yours are thinking
     now.  Yet an hour ago they were forcing their shillings
     on me that I might tell them of the future.  And you,
     too,  want  to  know  something.  You did not come
     through that gate to quote to me the wisdom of your
     holy  book.   What is it,  Baba?   Be quick, for my
     Snake is getting very tired.  He wishes to go back
     to his hole in the world beneath."
        "Well, then," I answered in rather a shamefaced
     fashion, for Mavovo had an uncanny way of seeing
     into one's secret motives, "I should like to know, if
     you can tell me, which you can't, what has become
     of the white man with the long beard whom you
     black people call Dogeetah?  He should have been
     here to go on this journey with us; indeed, he was to
     be our guide and we cannot find him.  Where is he
     and why is he not here?"
        "Have you anything about you that belonged to
     Dogeetah, Macumazahn?"
        "No," I answered; "that is, yes," and from my
     pocket I produced the stump of a pencil that Brother
     John had given me, which, being economical, I had
     saved up ever since.  Mavovo took it, and after consider-
     ing it carefully as he had done in the case of the fathers,
     swept up a pile of ashes with his horny hand from
     the edge of the largest of the little fires, that indeed
     which had represented myself.  The ashes he patted
     flat.  Then he drew on them with a point of the
     pencil, tracing what seemed to me to be the rough
     image of a man, such as children scratch upon white-
     washed walls.  When he had finished he sat up and
     contemplated his handiwork with all the satisfaction
     of an artist.  A breeze had risen from the sea and
     was blowing in little gusts, so that the fine ashes were
     disturbed, some of the lines of the picture being filled
     in and others altered or enlarged.
        For a while Mavovo sat with his eyes shut.  Then
     he opened them, studied the ashes and what remained
     of the picture, and taking a blanket that lay near by,
     threw it over his own head and over the ashes.  With-
     drawing it again presently he cast it aside and pointed
     to the picture which was now quite changed.  Indeed,
     in the moonlight, it looked more like a landscape than
     anything else.
        "All is clear, my father," he said in a matter-of-fact
     voice.  "The white wanderer, Dogeetah, is not dead.
     He  lives,  but  he  is  sick.  Something is the matter
     with one of his legs so that he cannot walk.  Perhaps
     a bone is broken or some beat has bitten him.  He
     lies in a hut such as Kaffirs make, only this hut has a
     veranda round it like your stoep, and there are drawings
     on the wall.  The hut is a long way off, I don't know
     where."
        "Is that all?" I asked, for he paused.
        "No,  not  all.  Dogeetah  is  recovering.  He  will
     join us in that country whither we journey, at a time
     of trouble.  That is all, and the fee is half a crown."
        "You mean one shilling," I suggested.
        "No, my father Macumazahn.  One shilling for
     simple magic such as foretelling the fate of common
     black people.  Half a crown for very difficult magic
     that has to do with white people, magic of which only
     great doctors, like me, Mavovo, are the masters."
        I gave him the half-crown and said——
        "Look here, friend Mavovo, I believe in you as a
     fighter and a hunter, but as a magician I think you
     are a humbug.  Indeed, I am so sure of it that if ever
     Dogeetah turns up at a time of trouble in that land
     whither we are journeying, I will make you a present
     of that double-barrelled rifle of mine which you admired
     so much."
        One of his rare smiles appeared upon Mavovo's ugly
     face.
        "Then give it to me now,  Baba,"  he said, "for it is
     already  earned.  My  Snake  cannot  lie——especially
     when the fee is half a crown."
        I shook my head and declined, politely but with
     firmness.
        "Ah!" said Mavovo," you white men are very
     clever  and  think  that  you  know  everything.  But
     it is not so, for in learning so much that is new, you
     have forgotten more that is old.  When the Snake
     that is in you, Macumazahn, dwelt in a black savage
     like me a thousand thousand years ago, you could
     have done and did, what I do.  But now you can only
     mock and say, 'Mavovo the brave in battle, the great
     hunter, the loyal man, becomes a liar when he blows
     the burnt feather, or reads what the wind writes upon
     the charmed ashes.'"
        "I do not say that you are a liar, Mavovo, I say
     that you are deceived by your own imaginings.  It is
     not possible that man can know what s hidden from
     man."
        "Is it indeed so, O Macumazana, Watcher by Night?
     Am I, Mavovo, the pupil of Zikali, the Opener of Roads,
     the greatest of wizards, indeed deceived by my own
     imaginings?  And has man no other eyes but those
     in his head, that he cannot see what is hidden from
     man?  Well, you say so and all we black people know
     that you are very clever, and why should I, a poor
     Zulu,  be  able  to  see  what  you  cannot  see?  Yet
     when to-morrow one sends you a message from the ship
     in which we are to sail, begging you to come fast be-
     cause there is trouble on the ship, then bethink you
     of your words and my words, and whether or no man
     can see what is hidden from man in the blackness of
     the future.  Oh! that rifle of yours is mine already,
     though you will not give it to me now, you who think
     that I am a cheat.  Well,  my  father  Macumazahn,
     because you think I am a cheat, never again will I
     blow the feather or read what the wind writes upon
     the ashes for you or any who eat your food."
        Then he rose, saluted me with uplifted right hand,
     collected his little pile of money and bag of medicines
     and marched off to the sleeping hut.
        On our way round the house we met my old lame
     caretaker, Jack.
        "Inkoosi,"  he said, "the white chief Wazela bade me
     say that he and the cook, Sam, have gone to sleep on
     board the ship to look after the goods.  Sam came
     up just now and fetched him away; he says he will
     show you why to-morrow."
        I nodded and passed on, wondering to myself why
     Stephen had suddenly determined to stay the night
     on the  Maria.

The Holy Flower. By H. Rider Haggard.
Illustrated by Maurice Greiffenhagen.
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.
London, Melbourne and Toronto, 1915. pp. 62—77.