Could he have seen what was in Zwabeka's mind,--Zwabeka, nominally asleep in one of the huts a few yards away,--could he have heard what was on Zwabeka's tongue, yea, at that very moment, where would his sympathy have been? The course of but a few days was destined to change it, like that of many another who desired to treat the conquered race with fairness and consideration, and who like himself were sitting on the brink of the hitherto quiescent vent of a raging volcano. CHAPTER EIGHT. ZWABEKA'S KRAAL. "Isn't that a perfect picture of savage life, set in a savage surrounding?" said Lamont, as he stood with his travelling companion before the door of the hut allotted to them. "It is artistically complete." "It is indeed," was the answer. And it was. The circle of the kraal, with its great open space and the conical huts, four deep, ringing it in: the dark, lithe forms of its occupants, unclothed save for a _mutya_ of dangling monkey skins; or in the case of the women a greasy hide apron: the sinuous movements as the young men and boys ran in and out among the multi-coloured cattle: the reek of smoke and kine: the wild background of wooded ridge and craggy rock, and the swirling streamers of the storm-cloud above, pouring forth jetty beams of steely blue light and reverberating roll against the bushy spurs and darksome recesses. All this in the fast-gathering dusk made up a picture of sombre, impressive grandeur, the very soul of which seemed to permeate the minds of its two civilised spectators. Then the full force of the storm broke overhead, and it was as though the whole world were on fire, and split in twain; what with the unintermittent electric glare, and the ear-splitting crashes, hardly more intermittent. But, with it all, not a drop of rain. "It's grand; but I've a notion it's beastly dangerous," said Lamont. "We'd better get inside. There's more electricity in us than in a roof. They say," he went on, as they gained their shelter, "that dry storms are more dangerous than when it rains, but that may be a popular superstition. Anyway everyone doesn't share it, for here's somebody coming." Even as he spoke, there crept through the low doorway, which had been left open, a young man followed by two girls, one bearing a basket of green mealies roasted on the ashes, the other a large bowl of _tywala_. The youth explained that they were sent by Gudhlusa, who was sorry he could not send meat, but the people were poor, since Government and the pestilence had killed all their cattle, and they had no meat. "We shall do famously," said Lamont. Then to the young man: "We thank Gudhlusa. And thou, _umfane_, make ready and broil these birds for us. Here is of the white man's money; for thyself." "_Nkose_!" cried the youth delightedly, taking up the two francolins. "It shall be done. My father, Gudhlusa, also said that the chief, Zwabeka, is not able to see and talk with the _Amakosi_ this night. He is sick."