The first was that if I shot Dingaan the Zulus would probably massacre Marie and the others—­Marie, whose sweet face I should never see again.  The second was that while there is life there is hope.  Perhaps, after all, he had not sent for an executioner, but for someone else.  I would wait.  A few minutes more of existence were worth the having.

The shield-bearer returned, emerging from one of the narrow, reed-hedged passages, and after him came no executioner, but a young white man, who, as I knew from the look of him, was English.  He saluted the king by taking off his hat, which I remember was stuck round with black ostrich feathers, then stared at me.

“O Tho-maas” (that is how he pronounced “Thomas"), said Dingaan, “tell me if this boy is one of your brothers, or is he a Boer?”

“The king wants to know if you are Dutch or British,” said the white lad, speaking in English.

“As British as you are,” I answered.  “I was born in England, and come from the Cape.”

“That may be lucky for you,” he said, “because the old witch-doctor, Zikali, has told him that he must not kill any English.  What is your name?  Mine is Thomas Halstead.  I am interpreter here.”

“Allan Quatermain.  Tell Zikali, whoever he may be, that if he sticks to his advice I will give him a good present.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Dingaan suspiciously.

“He says he is English, no Boer, O king; that he was born across the Black Water, and that he comes from the country out of which all the Boers have trekked.”

At this intelligence Dingaan pricked up his ears.

“Then he can tell me about these Boers,” he said, “and what they are after, or could if he were able to speak my tongue.  I do not trust you to interpret, you Tho-maas, whom I know to be a liar,” and he glowered at Halstead.

“I can speak your tongue, though not very well, O king,” I interrupted, “and I can tell you all about the Boers, for I have lived among them.”

“Ow!” said Dingaan, intensely interested.  “But perhaps you are also a liar.  Or are you a praying man, like that fool yonder, who is named Oweena?”—­he meant the missionary Mr. Owen—­“whom I spare because it is not lucky to kill one who is mad, although he tries to frighten my soldiers with tales of a fire into which they will go after they are dead.  As though it matters what happens to them after they are dead!” he added reflectively, taking a pinch of snuff.

“I am no liar,” I answered.  “What have I to lie about?”

“You would lie to save your own life, for all white men are cowards; not like the Zulus, who love to die for their king.  But how are you named?”

“Your people call me Macumazahn.”

“Well, Macumazahn, if you are no liar, tell me, is it true that these Boers rebelled against their king who was named George, and fled from him as the traitor Umsilikazi did from me?”