“See what cowards they are, White Man,” said the king with indignation; “they fear lest there should be another bullet in this gun.”

“Yes,” answered Hadden, “they are cowards indeed.  I believe that if they were seated on stools they would tumble off them just as it chanced to your Majesty to do just now.”

“Do you understand the making of guns, White Man?” asked the king hastily, while the Indunas one and all turned their heads, and contemplated the fence behind them.

“No, King, I cannot make guns, but I can mend them.”

“If I paid you well, White Man, would you stop here at my kraal, and mend guns for me?” asked Cetywayo anxiously.

“It might depend on the pay,” answered Hadden; “but for awhile I am tired of work, and wish to rest.  If the king gives me the permission to hunt for which I asked, and men to go with me, then when I return perhaps we can bargain on the matter.  If not, I will bid the king farewell, and journey to Natal.”

“In order to make report of what he has seen and learned here,” muttered Cetywayo.

At this moment the talk was interrupted, for the soldiers who had led away the old Induna returned at speed, and prostrated themselves before the king.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“He has travelled the king’s bridge,” they answered grimly; “he died singing a song of praise of the king.”

“Good,” said Cetywayo, “that stone shall hurt my feet no more.  Go, tell the tale of its casting away to Sompseu and to the Queen’s Induna in Natal,” he added with bitter emphasis.

“Baba! Hear our Father speak.  Listen to the rumbling of the Elephant,” said the Indunas taking the point, while one bolder than the rest added:  “Soon we will tell them another tale, the white Talking Ones, a red tale, a tale of spears, and the regiments shall sing it in their ears.”

At the words an enthusiasm caught hold of the listeners, as the sudden flame catches hold of dry grass.  They sprang up, for the most of them were seated on their haunches, and stamping their feet upon the ground in unison, repeated:—­

Indaba ibomwu—­indaba ye mikonto Lizo dunyiswa nge impi ndhlebeni yaho. (A red tale!  A red tale!  A tale of spears, And the impis shall sing it in their ears.)

One of them, indeed, a great fierce-faced fellow, drew near to Hadden and shaking his fist before his eyes—­fortunately being in the royal presence he had no assegai—­shouted the sentences at him.

The king saw that the fire he had lit was burning too fiercely.

“Silence,” he thundered in the deep voice for which he was remarkable, and instantly each man became as if he were turned to stone, only the echoes still answered back:  “And the impis shall sing it in their ears—­in their ears.”

“I am growing certain that this is no place for me,” thought Hadden; “if that scoundrel had been armed he might have temporarily forgotten himself.  Hullo! who’s this?”