Sikonile’s hut was full. Sikonile’s hut, being full, was exceedingly close and stuffy. Moreover, it was thick with tobacco smoke; for, unlike the Zulus, both men and women of the Xosa tribes were great smokers, and so thick was the cloud, having no egress but by percolating through the thatch roof, that none but Kafir eyes could have remained open in it for two consecutive minutes. This, with the foetid, musky, human odour combined with that of more or less rancid grease, would have sent the ordinary white man promptly outside, feeling very sea-sick indeed. No white man, however, was there; incidentally a very lucky thing for the white man, and that for other reasons than the one just given.

Sikonile was an elderly Kafir, and the expression of his massive, bearded countenance was scowling and vindictive as he sat gloomily puffing at his long-stemmed angular pipe. And this was scarcely wonderful, seeing that he was the father of Nzinto, the man whom Harley Greenoak had just shot dead. The fact that the deceased had brought his fate upon his own head did not count for much towards mending matters.

“The people might as well lie down again,” he was saying, continuing the debate, which had already reached a heated pitch. “‘It is not healthy to attempt to snatch a gun from the hand of Kulondeka,’” he quoted, with a sneer. “Hau! Had I been there then, Kulondeka would have found it ‘not healthy’ to shoot down the children of Gaika, here in their own home. Yet, a number of us, all armed, slunk away like stoned curs. Hau! like stoned and beaten curs!”

A fierce murmur greeted his words. He went on—

“And such call themselves men. And they all slink away before one. Men! Hau! I call them dogs. And if they slink away before one white, what will they do when many whites are arrayed against them? What is all this talk about driving the whites into the sea when they are afraid of a single one, alone in their midst? Why, our women would make better warriors than they.”

Most of those present, elderly or middle-aged men themselves, had sons who had been among the uproarious demonstrators; and liked not the contemptuous denunciation of the speaker. One now spoke.

“Not at the bidding of the white man did they hold their hands, Sikonile, but at the word of the chief.”

“The word of the chief,” echoed Sikonile, sneeringly savage. “Au! but Matanzima is not a chief. He is the son of the Great Chief, but he is a boy.”

“Yet he is the one to whom all these look up,” put in another. “The time to take vengeance was not yet.”

“Not yet? But will it ever be?” cried Sikonile, flinging out an arm and glaring around. “You are all afraid of this white man—afraid. Hau!”

The disgust and contempt of his tone, especially as conveyed by the last exclamation, stung them somewhat.

“Kulondeka is no ordinary white man,” said some one, sullenly. “There is that of tagati about him. Many have tried to kill him, and he is still alive. But—where are they?”

“Cowards all! Fools and cowards! They deserved their death,” was the fierce rejoinder.

“Yet, brother,” went on the one who had spoken last, “Kulondeka is here among us alone. It is thy son whom he has killed, but thou hast other sons. Matanzima is no chief—only the child of one. Yonder is his hut, and the white man is here. Now take thy other sons, and go and kill him.”

There was a touch of mockery in the tone. The words were, in fact, a challenge. Sikonile leapt to his feet.

“That will I do!” he blared forth, gesticulating with anger, for he was worked up to a blaze of revengeful exaltation. “That will I do!” And tearing down a bundle of assegais which hung against the side of the hut, he made for the door. But before he could gain it another voice spoke.

“Pause, brother. I have a better plan than that.”

The angry man paused.

“A better plan!” he sneered. “Plans—always plans! Whau! I like not such. We have heard too much of plans lately. It is now time to act. One act is worth ten times ten plans. Yet, what is thy ‘plan,’ Mafutana?”

“Hear it then, Sikonile. What sort of poor revenge would it be to kill Kulondeka, to kill him at once so that he feels nothing, and to get thyself and thy sons killed for violating the house of the son of the Great Chief—for this is surely what would happen? Should we not rather collect our sons together, and, stealing out from the kraals by twos and threes, meet after dark, and take him when he leaves to-night to return home? For he will leave to-night.”

A murmur of applause met this proposal. The vengeful father was impressed.

“Why, that is something of a plan,” he said. “But what if it should fail? Yet, it should not.”

“It should not, for it will be easy,” was the answer. “We can ambush every way by which he will leave. Then, think what your revenge will be. We will carry him to the ‘Place of the Bones,’ and spend the night burning him alive, even as we did the traitor Nemvu. Whau! what an end for Kulondeka! A great, a noble end. You, Sikonile, in each of his groans, as the fire eats into sinew and flesh and nerve, will hear the glad laughter of Nzinto, whom he slew. Now, say. Is not my plan the better? It will avoid trouble, for Matanzima, to whom all the fighters look up, will never know. And, what a noble revenge it will afford thee.”

An emphatic hum of approval went up from the entire gathering. Mafutana was a genius. And then all heads were grouped together in an eager, under-toned discussion, and, seen through the thick, dim smoke-cloud, the grim ferocious faces were as those of demons exulting over the torment of a newly acquired soul.

Harley Greenoak awoke at sundown, aroused by a light touch from his host, who had been watching carefully over his safety.

“It is nearly time to depart, Kulondeka,” said the latter. “To have done so earlier would not have been safe, to remain later would not be safe either; for, bear in mind, I am not the Great Chief, but only his child. And he has other children.”

There was significance in this. The very short twilight—for darkness falls suddenly under Southern skies—was used by Greenoak in solemnly repeating his former warnings. Then, when it was dark enough, they went outside, where the horse was already standing, all ready and saddled.

“Fare thee well, son of the Great............