For a while this remarkable person stood before us, his hands folded and his head bent in a humble fashion, though it was really I who should have been humble, owing to the physical contrast between us. Apparently he did not think it proper to speak first, while Zikali squatted there grimly, not helping me at all. At last, seeing that something must be done, I rose from the stool upon which I was seated and held out my hand. After a moment’s hesitation the splendid stranger took it, but not to shake in the usual fashion, for he bent his head and gently touched my fingers with his lips, as though he were a French courtier and I a pretty lady. I bowed again with the best grace I could command, then putting my hand in my trouser pocket, said, “How do you do?” and as he did not seem to understand, repeated it in the Zulu word, “_Sakubona._” This also failing, I greeted him in the name of the Prophet in my best Arabic. Here I struck oil, as an American friend of mine named Brother John used to say, for he replied in the same tongue, or something like it. Speaking in a soft and pleasing voice, but without alluding to the Prophet, he addressed me as “Great Lord Macumazahn, whose fame and prowess echo across the earth,” and a lot of other nonsense, with which I could see that Zikali had stuffed him, that may be omitted. “Thank you,” I cut in, “thank you, Mr.——?” and I paused. “My name is Issicore,” he said. “And a very nice name, too, though I never heard one like it,” I replied. “Well, Issicore, what can I do for you?” An inadequate remark, I admit, but I wanted to come to the facts. “Everything,” he answered fervently, pressing his hands to his breast. “You can save from death a most beautiful lady who will love you.” “Will she?” I exclaimed. “Then I will have nothing to do with that business, which always leads to trouble.” Here Zikali broke in for the first time, speaking very slowly to Issicore in Zulu, which I remembered he said he had been teaching him, and saying, “The Lord Macumazahn is already full of woman’s love and has no room for more. Speak not to him of love, O Issicore, lest you should anger the ghost of one who haunts this spot, a certain royal Mameena whom once he knew too well.” Now I turned upon Zikali, purposing to give him a piece of my mind, when Issicore, smiling a little, repeated, “Who will love you—as a brother.” “That’s better,” I said, “though I don’t know that I want to take on a sister at my time of life, but I suppose you mean that she will be much obliged?” “That is so, O Lord. Also the reward will be great.” “Ah!” I replied, really interested. “Now be so good as to tell me exactly what you want.” Well, to cut a long story short, with variations he repeated Zikali’s tale. I was to travel to his remote land, bring about the destruction of a nebulous monster, or fetish, or system of religion, and in payment to be given as many diamonds as I could carry.