“Then, Eddo,” whispered Nya, leaning forward
and looking into his eyes, “she shall be the
last Mother of this people. Fool, there are those
who fight for her against whom thou canst not prevail.
Thou knowest them not, but I know them, and I tell
thee that they make ready thy doom. Have thy
way, Eddo; it was not for her that I pleaded with thee,
but for the sake of the ancient People of the Ghosts,
whose fate draws nigh to them. Fool, have thy
way, spin thy web, and be caught in it thyself.
I tell thee, Eddo, that thy death shall be redder
than any thou hast ever dreamed, nor shall it fall
on thee alone. Begone now, and trouble me no more
till in another place all that is left of thee shall
creep to my feet, praying me for a pardon thou shalt
not find. Begone, for the last leaf withers on
my Tree and to-morrow I pass within the Fence.
Say to the people that their Mother against whom they
rebelled is dead, and that she bids them prepare to
meet the evil which, alive, she warded from their heads.”
Now Eddo strove to answer, but could not, for there
was something in the flaming eyes of Nya which frightened
him. He looked at Hana, and Hana looked back
at him, then taking each other’s hand they slunk
away towards the wall, staggering blindly through
the sunshine towards the shade.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE DREAM IN THE NORTH
Richard Darrien remembered drinking a bowl of milk
in the hut in which he was imprisoned at Mafooti,
and instantly feeling a cold chill run to his heart
and brain, after which he remembered no more for many
a day. At length, however, by slow degrees, and
with sundry slips back into unconsciousness, life
and some share of his reason and memory returned to
him. He awoke to find himself lying in a hut roughly
fashioned of branches, and attended by a Kaffir woman
of middle age.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am named Mami,” she answered.
“Mami, Mami! I know the name, and I know
the voice. Say, were you one of the wives of
Ibubesi, she who spoke with me through the fence?”
and he strove to raise himself on his arm to look
at her, but fell back from weakness.
“Yes, Inkoos, I was one of his wives.”
“Was? Then where is Ibubesi now?”
“Dead, Inkoos. The fire has burned him
up with his kraal Mafooti.”
“With the kraal Mafooti! Where, then, is
the Inkosazana? Answer, woman, and be swift,”
he cried in a hollow voice.
“Alas! Inkoos, alas! she is dead also,
for she was in the kraal when the fire swept it, and
was seen standing on the top of a hut where she had
taken refuge, and after that she was seen no more.”
“Then let me die and go to her,” exclaimed
Richard with a groan, as he fell back upon his bed,
where he lay almost insensible for three more days.
Yet he did not die, for he was young and very strong,
and Mami poured milk down his throat to keep the life
in him. Indeed little by little something of
his strength came back, so that at last he was able
to think and talk with her again, and learned all
the dreadful story.
