“What do you mean, nephew?” asked Retief in his direct fashion. “Do you believe that this _swartzel_” (that is, black creature) “means to kill us?” “I believe that it is quite possible,” I answered. “Then, nephew, being a reasonable man as you are, you must have some ground for your belief. Come now, out with it.” “I have none, commandant, except that one who can set the lives of a dozen folk against a man’s skill in shooting at birds on the wing, and who can kill people to be a bait for those birds, is capable of anything. Moreover, he told me that he did not love you Boers, and why should he?” Now, all those who were standing about seemed to be impressed with this argument. At any rate, they turned towards Retief, anxiously waiting for his reply. “Doubtless,” answered the commandant, who, as I have said, was irritable that night, “doubtless those English missionaries have poisoned the king’s mind against us Boers. Also,” he added suspiciously, “I think you told me, Allan, that the king said he liked you and meant to spare you, even if he killed your companions, just because you also are English. Are you sure that you do not know more than you choose to tell us? Has Dingaan perhaps confided something to you—just because you are English?” Then noting that these words moved the assembled Boers, in whom race prejudice and recent events had created a deep distrust of any born of British blood, I grew very angry and answered: “Commandant, Dingaan confided nothing to me, except that some Kaffir witch-doctor, who is named Zikali, a man I never saw, had told him that he must not kill an Englishman, and therefore he wished to spare me, although one of your people, Hernan Pereira, had whispered to him that I ought to be killed. Yet I say outright that I think you are foolish to visit this king with so large a force. Still, I am ready to do so myself with one or two others. Let me go, then, and try to persuade him to sign this treaty as to the land. If I am killed or fail, you can follow after me and do better.”