“It is no nonsense, White Man.”

“Indeed?  Then will you tell me what it means?”

“I cannot tell you what it means yet, but her words have to do with a woman and a leopard, and with your fate and my fate.”

Hadden shrugged his shoulders, not thinking the matter worth further argument, and at that moment the Bee woke up shivering, drew the red snake from her head-dress and coiling it about her throat wrapped herself again in the greasy kaross.

“Are you satisfied with my wisdom, Inkoos?” she asked of Hadden.

“I am satisfied that you are one of the cleverest cheats in Zululand, mother,” he answered coolly.  “Now, what is there to pay?”

The Bee took no offence at this rude speech, though for a second or two the look in her eyes grew strangely like that which they had seen in those of the snake when the fumes of the fire made it angry.

“If the white lord says I am a cheat, it must be so,” she answered, “for he of all men should be able to discern a cheat.  I have said that I ask no fee;—­yes, give me a little tobacco from your pouch.”

Hadden opened the bag of antelope hide and drawing some tobacco from it, gave it to her.  In taking it she clasped his hand and examined the gold ring that was upon the third finger, a ring fashioned like a snake with two little rubies set in the head to represent the eyes.

“I wear a snake about my neck, and you wear one upon your hand, Inkoos.  I should like to have this ring to wear upon my hand, so that the snake about my neck may be less lonely there.”

“Then I am afraid you will have to wait till I am dead,” said Hadden.

“Yes, yes,” she answered in a pleased voice, “it is a good word.  I will wait till you are dead and then I will take the ring, and none can say that I have stolen it, for Nahoon there will bear me witness that you gave me permission to do so.”

For the first time Hadden started, since there was something about the Bee’s tone that jarred upon him.  Had she addressed him in her professional manner, he would have thought nothing of it; but in her cupidity she had become natural, and it was evident that she spoke from conviction, believing her own words.

She saw him start, and instantly changed her note.

“Let the white lord forgive the jest of a poor old witch-doctoress,” she said in a whining voice.  “I have so much to do with Death that his name leaps to my lips,” and she glanced first at the circle of skulls about her, then towards the waterfall that fed the gloomy pool upon whose banks her hut was placed.

“Look,” she said simply.