The prospect of being a spectator of so unusual a sight overcame my desire to be gone, and I accepted the chief’s invitation to see it out. Before mid-day I regretted it, for though the western heavens grew darker and darker, and the still air heralded the coming of the storm, yet it did not come. By four o’clock, however, it became obvious that it must burst soon—at sunset, the old chief said, and in the company of the whole assembly I moved down to the place of combat. The kraal was built on the top of a hill, and below it the land sloped gently to the banks of a river about half a mile away. On the hither side of the bank was the piece of land that was, the natives said, “loved of the lightning.” Here the magicians took up their stand, while the spectators grouped themselves on the hillside about two hundred yards away—which was, I thought, rather too near to be pleasant. When we had sat there for a while my curiosity overcame me, and I asked leave of the chief to go down and inspect the arena. He said I might do so at my own risk. I told him that the fire from above would not hurt white men, and went to find that the spot was a bed of iron ore, thinly covered with grass, which of course accounted for its attracting the lightning from the storms as they travelled along the line of the river. At each end of this iron-stone area were placed the combatants, Indaba-zimbi facing the east, and his rival the west, and before each there burned a little fire made of some scented root. Moreover they were dressed in all the paraphernalia of their craft, snakeskins, fish-bladders, and I know not what beside, while round their necks hung circlets of baboons’ teeth and bones from human hands. First I went to the western end where the chief’s son stood. He was pointing with his assegai towards the advancing storm, and invoking it in a voice of great excitement. “Come, fire, and lick up Indaba-zimbi! “Hear me, Storm Devil, and lick Indaba-zimbi with your red tongue! “Spit on him with your rain! “Whirl him away in your breath! “Make him as nothing—melt the marrow in his bones! “Run into his heart and burn away the lies! “Show all the people who is the true Witch Finder! “Let me not be put to shame in the eyes of this white man!” Thus he spoke, or rather chanted, and all the while rubbed his broad chest—for he was a very fine man—with some filthy compound of medicine or _mouti_.