“Why do you not speak, White Man?” she said at last in a slow clear voice.  “Well, there is no need, since I can read your thoughts.  You are thinking that I who am called the Bee should be better named the Spider.  Have no fear; I did not kill these men.  What would it profit me when the dead are so many?  I suck the souls of men, not their bodies, White Man.  It is their living hearts I love to look on, for therein I read much and thereby I grow wise.  Now what would you of the Bee, White Man, the Bee that labours in this Garden of Death, and—­what brings you here, son of Zomba?  Why are you not with the Umcityu now that they doctor themselves for the great war—­the last war—­the war of the white and the black—­or if you have no stomach for fighting, why are you not at the side of Nanea the tall, Nanea the fair?”

Nahoon made no answer, but Hadden said:—­

“A small thing, mother.  I would know if I shall prosper in my hunting.”

“In your hunting, White Man; what hunting?  The hunting of game, of money, or of women?  Well, one of them, for a-hunting you must ever be; that is your nature, to hunt and be hunted.  Tell me now, how goes the wound of that trader who tasted of your steel yonder in the town of the Maboon (Boers)?  No need to answer, White Man, but what fee, Chief, for the poor witch-doctoress whose skill you seek,” she added in a whining voice.  “Surely you would not that an old woman should work without a fee?”

“I have none to offer you, mother, so I will be going,” said Hadden, who began to feel himself satisfied with this display of the Bee’s powers of observation and thought-reading.

“Nay,” she answered with an unpleasant laugh, “would you ask a question, and not wait for the answer?  I will take no fee from you at present, White Man; you shall pay me later on when we meet again,” and once more she laughed.  “Let me look in your face, let me look in your face,” she continued, rising and standing before him.

Then of a sudden Hadden felt something cold at the back of his neck, and the next instant the Bee had sprung from him, holding between her thumb and finger a curl of dark hair which she had cut from his head.  The action was so instantaneous that he had neither time to avoid nor to resent it, but stood still staring at her stupidly.

“That is all I need,” she cried, “for like my heart my magic is white.  Stay—­son of Zomba, give me also of your hair, for those who visit the Bee must listen to her humming.”

Nahoon obeyed, cutting a little lock from his head with the sharp edge of his assegai, though it was very evident that he did this not because he wished to do so, but because he feared to refuse.

Then the Bee slipped back her kaross, and stood bending over the fire before them, into which she threw herbs taken from a pouch that was bound about her middle.  She was still a finely-shaped woman, and she wore none of the abominations which Hadden had been accustomed to see upon the persons of witch-doctoresses.  About her neck, however, was a curious ornament, a small live snake, red and grey in hue, which her visitors recognised as one of the most deadly to be found in that part of the country.  It is not unusual for Bantu witch-doctors thus to decorate themselves with snakes, though whether or not their fangs have first been extracted no one seems to know.