the only person with whom I had any subsequent debate upon the subject, appeared to have gathered one that was different, though what it was I do not recall.  The only words that remained clear to me must, I thought, have come from the spirit of Chaka, or rather from Zikali or one of his myrmidons assuming that character.  They were uttered in a deep full voice, spiced with mockery, and received by the wizard with “Sibonga,” or titles of praise, which I who am versed in Zulu history and idiom knew had only been given to the great king, and indeed since his death had become unlawful, not to be used.  The words were—­

“What, Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born, do you think yourself a Thing-that-should-never-die, that you still sit beneath the moon and weave witchcrafts as of old?  Often have I hunted for you in the Under-world who have an account to settle with you, as you have an account to settle with me.  So, so, what does it matter since we must meet at last, even if you hide yourself at the back of the furthest star?  Why do you bring me up to this place where I see some whom I would forget?  Yes, they build bone on bone and taking the red earth, mould it into flesh and stand before me as last I saw them newly dead.  Oh! your magic is good, Spell-weaver, and your hate is deep and your vengeance is keen.  No, I have nothing to tell you to-day, who rule a greater people than the Zulus in another land.  Who are these little men who sit before you?  One of them has a look of Dingaan, my brother who slew me, yes, and wears his armlet.  Is he the king?  Answer not, for I do not care to know.  Surely yonder withered thing is Sigananda.  I know his eye and the Iziqu on his breast.  Yes, I gave it to him after the great battle with Zweede in which he killed five men.  Does he remember it, I wonder?  Greeting, Sigananda; old as you are you have still twenty and one years to live, and then we will talk of the battle with Zweede.  Let me begone, this place burns my spirit, and in it there is a stench of mortal blood.  Farewell, O Conqueror!”

These were the words that I thought I heard Chaka say, though I daresay that I dreamt them.  Indeed had it been otherwise, I mean had they really been spoken by Zikali, there would surely have been more in them, something that might have served his purpose, not mere talk which had all the inconsequence of a dream.  Also no one else seemed to pay any particular attention to them, though this may have been because so many voices were sounding from different places at once, for as I have said, Zikali arranged his performance very well, as well as any medium could have done on a prepared stage in London.