The tent-pegging, like the racing, proved, for the most part, poor; so much so indeed that it was hard to work up any great enthusiasm over it, though there was abundance of chaff. At the end, however, flagging interest revived, for now the win lay between Lamont and Orwell, the resident magistrate. Tie after tie they made, always neck and neck, and it became a question whether it would not end in a tie. There was plenty of excitement now, and shouting. Then there was dead silence as the two men awaited the word for the last time. Lamont settled down to his saddle. He would win, he felt, to miss would be impossible. They were off. His lance was unerringly straight for the peg. But as they thundered along he looked up--only one lightning-quick glance, and then--his lance ploughed up the bare turf while that of his adversary whirled aloft, the wedge of wood impaled upon it hard and fast. And amid the roar of cheers that rent the air, Lamont recognised that that quick side-glance he had been betrayed into taking had lost him the day. But that look--which had clouded his brain and unsteadied his wrist--not upon her for whom he was here in these modern lists was it directed, but upon a red object moving among the groups near the entrance gate of the enclosure. CHAPTER TWELVE. THE RED SIGNAL--OR THE WHITE? "Why--it is. It's old Qubani," said Driffield. "And who might old `Click'-ubani be?" asked Clare. "He's a thundering big Matabele witch-doctor. Fancy the old boy rolling up to see the fun. Wonder they let him in." "It was thanks to you, Driffield," said a man who was within earshot. "He was asking for you. Told them at the gate that you and Lamont had invited him to come." "Then he told a whacking big lie, at any rate as far as I am concerned. Well, I suppose I must go and talk to him, and incidentally stand him something. In my line it's everything to be well in with influential natives." "Can't you bring him here, Mr Driffield?" asked Clare. "I'd like to talk to a Matabele chief--didn't you say he was a chief?" "No; a witch-doctor, who, in his way, is often just as big a pot as a chief--sometimes a bigger. You'd better come over with me and talk to him, Miss Vidal; then, when you've had enough of him, you can go away, whereas if I bring him here he may stick on for ever." Old Qubani, who was squatting against the enclosure talking to a roughish-looking white man, rose to his feet as he saw Driffield, and with hand uplifted poured forth lavish _sibongo_. Then he turned to Clare. "_Nkosazana! Uhle! Amehlo kwezulu! Wou! Sipazi-pazi_!" "What does he say?" she asked. "He hails you as a princess, says that you are beautiful, and have eyes like the heavens--and that you are dazzling. That's why he put his hand over his eyes and looked down." "Silly old man; he's quite poetical," she said, looking pleased all the same. "_Indhlovukazi_!" "Now he's calling you a female elephant."