The figure on the box slowly unrolled the blanket, and with great deliberation took a pinch of snuff. “It was a good fire-fight, white man, was it not?” said Indaba-zimbi, in his high, cracked voice. “But he never had a chance against me, poor boy. He knew nothing about it. See, white man, what becomes of presumption in the young. It is sad, very sad, but I made the flashes fly, didn’t I?” “You old humbug,” I said, “unless you are careful you will soon learn what comes of presumption in the old, for your chief is after you with an assegai, and it will take all your magic to dodge that.” “Now you don’t say so,” said Indaba-zimbi, clambering off the waggon with rapidity; “and all because of this wretched upstart. There’s gratitude for you, white man. I expose him, and they want to kill me. Well, thank you for the hint. We shall meet again before long,” and he was gone like a shot, and not too soon, for just then some of the chief’s men came up to the waggon. On the following morning I started homewards. The first face I saw on arriving at the station was that of Indaba-zimbi. “How do you do, Macumazahn?” he said, holding his head on one side and nodding his white lock. “I hear you are Christians here, and I want to try a new religion. Mine must be a bad one seeing that my people wanted to kill me for exposing an impostor.” CHAPTER III. NORTHWARDS I make no apology to myself, or to anybody who may happen to read this narrative in future, for having set out the manner of my meeting with Indaba-zimbi: first, because it was curious, and secondly, because he takes some hand in the subsequent events. If that old man was a humbug, he was a very clever one. What amount of truth there was in his pretensions to supernatural powers it is not for me to determine, though I may have my own opinion on the subject. But there was no mistake as to the extraordinary influence he exercised over his fellow-natives. Also he quite got round my poor father. At first the old gentleman declined to have him at the station, for he had a great horror of these Kaffir wizards or witch-finders. But Indaba-zimbi persuaded him that he was anxious to investigate the truths of Christianity, and challenged him to a discussion. The argument lasted two years—to the time of my father’s death, indeed. At the conclusion of each stage Indaba-zimbi would remark, in the words of the Roman Governor, “Almost, praying white man, thou persuadest me to become a Christian,” but he never quite became one—indeed, I do not think he ever meant to. It was to him that my father addressed his “Letters to a Native Doubter.” This work, which, unfortunately, remains in manuscript, is full of wise saws and learned instances. It ought to be published together with a _précis_ of the doubter’s answers, which were verbal.