The Induna's Wife. Mitford Bertram

grew older he had become more and more sour and suspicious. Now he was thinking that he himself was destined to die in blood, even as that Great One, Tshaka, had died, that I, his second fighting induna, his favourite war-councillor, should succeed him, and so win back not only the seat of Matyobane, but the throne of Senzangakona for this sorceress—this splendid daughter of Tshaka the Terrible. So, too, would the death of Tshaka be avenged. And in Umzilikazi’s look I could read my own doom, and yet, Nkose, even at that moment not of myself did I think. I had only eyes for the tall, shapely form of my beautiful wife thus put upon her trial before the King and the whole nation. Then Umzilikazi spoke.

      “It seems we have spared too many slaves of this race of Abatagati. Take these hence,” pointing to the grovelling Bakoni. “The alligators are hungry.”

      There was a roar of delight from all who heard. The slayers flung themselves upon the shrieking slaves, dragging them away by the heels as they rolled upon the ground imploring mercy, for they were too sick with terror to stand upon their legs. Shouts of hate and wrath followed them as they were hurried away to the pool of death. Indeed, such a rain of blows and kicks fell upon them from those through whose midst they were dragged that it seemed doubtful whether most of them would ever reach the alligators alive. For, Nkose, although in dead silence and pitied by all, Hlatusa had gone through these same people to his doom, he was one of ourselves, and a brave fighter; but these were of an inferior and conquered race, and withal miserable cowards, wherefore our people could not restrain their hatred and contempt.

      “Hold!” roared the King, before the slayers had quite dragged these dogs outside the kraal, and at his voice again silence fell upon the throng. “Hold! After feeding upon the flesh of a brave man I will not that my alligators be poisoned with such carrion as this. There may yet be more royal meat for them,” he put in, in a lower tone, and with a savage and deadly sneer. Then, raising his voice, “Let these dogs be taken up to yonder hill and burnt.”

      A roar of delight broke from all, mingled with shouts of bonga as to the King’s justice and wisdom. And none were more pleased, I thought, than the slayers, men of fierce and savage mind, who, from constantly meting out torture and death, loved their occupation the more the farther they pursued it.

      For awhile there was silence. Away upon a round-topped hillock, within sight of all, the slayers were collecting great piles of dry wood, and upon these the condemned slaves were flung, bound. Then amid the fierce roar and crackle of the flames wild tortured shrieks burst from those who writhed there and burned, and to the people the shrieks were the pleasantest of sounds, for the terror of the Red Death had strangely fastened upon all minds, and they could not but hold that these who thus died had in some way brought the curse of it upon them.

      Again upon the stillness arose a long roll of thunder—this time loud and near, for the great cloud which had been lying low down upon the further sky was now towering huge and black, almost above the very spot where burned those wretches, and the pointed flash which followed seemed to dart in and out of the smoke which rose from the crackling wood pile. The multitude, watching, began to murmur about an omen.

      “Talk we now of this thing of evil,” said Umzilikazi, at last. “Thou, Lalusini, art a pestilent witch. For long hast thou been among us. For long has thy greatness been honoured, thou false prophetess, whose promise is as far from fulfilment as ever. Now thou shalt travel the way of those whose predictions are false.”

      Black and bitter wrath was in the King’s mind. Hardly could he contain himself, hardly could he speak for rage. He must stop perforce, half choking for breath. And I, Nkose, I sitting there, how did I contain myself, as I was obliged to behold my beautiful wife—whom I loved with a love far surpassing that which I felt for King and nation, or my own life a hundred times over—standing thus awaiting the word which should adjudge her to a shameful and agonising death! Hau! I am an old man now—a very old man—still can I see it before me; the huge kraal like a full moon, the yellow domes of the huts within the ring fences, the great open space in the middle black with listening people, bright with distended eyeballs, and gleaming teeth showing white between parted lips, and away beyond this the heavy smoke-wreath mounting from the glowing wood-pile, the cries and groans of the expiring slaves, the blackness of the thunder cloud, the fierce pale glare of the sun upon the assegais of the armed guard, and upon the blaze of white of the great shield held above the King. Yeh-bo—I see it all—the angry infuriated countenance of Umzilikazi, the dread anxiety on the faces of the other izinduna, which was as the shrinking before a great and terrible storm about to burst. Haul and I see more. I see, as I saw it then, the face of my beautiful wife, Lalusini, Daughter of the Mighty—as she stood there before the Great One, in whose hand was death—proud, fearless, and queenly. And she was awaiting her doom.

      Now she threw back her head, and in her eyes shone the light which must oft-times have shone in the eyes of that Mighty One from whom she had sprung. Then she spoke:

      “In the hand of the King is death, and even the greatest of those who practise sorcery cannot withstand such—at least not always. But know this, son of Matyo-bane, with my death shall utterly perish all hope of the seat of Senzangakona to thee and thine. Further, know that, without my help, the very House of Matyobane shall in two generations be rooted up and utterly destroyed, scattered to the winds, and the people of the Amandebeli shall become even as Amaholi to those who are stronger.”

      Those who heard these words murmured in awe, for over Lalusini’s face had come that inspired look which it wore when the spirit of divination was on her. But the King was beside himself with fury, and his features were working as those of a man who has gone mad.

      “So!” he hissed. “So! And I sit in my seat only by permission of a witch—by permission of one who is greater than I! So I am no longer a King!” he mocked. “Yet two bulls cannot rule in one kraal. So, sister, thou shalt have a high throne to rule this nation from—as high a throne as had the traitor Tyuyumane before thee.” Then raising his voice—for they had hitherto talked in a tone low enough to be heard only by the King and the few who sat in attendance round him—“Make ready the stake—the stake of impalement—for the inkosikazi of Untúswa. Make ready a high throne for the Queen of the Bakoni múti.”

      Whau, Nkose! I had fought at the side of Umzilikazi ever since I could fight. I had stood beside him when, single-handed, we hunted fierce and dangerous game. I had stood beside him in every peril, open or secret, that could beset the path of the founder of a great and warrior nation, who must ever rule that nation with a strong and iron hand. In short, there was no peril to which the King had been exposed that I had not shared, and yet, Nkose, I who sat there among the izinduna, unarmed and listening, knew that never, since the day of his birth, had he gone in such peril of instant death as at that moment when he sat there, his own broad spear in his right hand, and guarded by the shields and gleaming assegais of his body-guard—pronouncing the words which should consign my inkosikazi to a death of shame and of frightful agony. For the spell of Lalusini’s witchcraft lay potent and sweet upon my soul—and I was mad—yet not so mad but that as I sat there unarmed, I could measure the few paces that intervened between myself and the Great Great One—could mark how carelessly he held the broad-bladed spear within his grasp.

      Even the slayers—for not all had gone forth to the burning of the Bakoni—even the slayers stared as though half stupefied, hesitating to lay hands upon that queenly form, standing there erect and unutterably majestic. Upon us the spell of the moment was complete. We leaned forward as we sat, we izinduna, and for the rest of us it was as though stone figures sat there watching, not living men of flesh and bones. For myself, I know not how I looked. But how I felt—ah! it was well my thoughts were buried. The armed guards, too, seemed bewildered with awe and amazement. The moment had come. The Red Death had indeed presaged the accession of a new King—but for the daughter of Tshaka the Mighty, the swift and merciful stroke of a royal spear should end her life, instead of the stake of agony and shame. For myself I cared not. I was mad. The whole world was whizzing round.

      Through it all I heard the voice of Lalusini.

      “Pause a moment, Ruler of the Great,” she was