On the Monday morning Khama sent word to all the white men to come to him. It was a cold, dreary day. The chief sat waiting in the _Kgotla_[47] while the white men came together before him. Hepburn, the missionary, sat by his side. Those who knew Khama saw as soon as they looked into his grim face that no will on earth could turn him from his decisions that day. "You white men,"[48] he said to them sternly, "have insulted and despised me in my own town because I am a black man. If you despise us black men, what do you want here in the country that God has given to us? Go back to your own country." His voice became hard with a tragic sternness. "I am trying," he went on, "to lead my people to act according to the word of God which we have received from you white people, and yet _you_ show them an example of wickedness such as we never knew. You," and his voice rose in burning scorn, "you, the people of the word of God! You know that some of my own brothers"--he was referring to Khamane especially--"have learned to like the drink, and you know that I do not want them to see it even, that they may forget the habit. Yet you not only bring it in and offer it to them, but you try to tempt _me_ with it. "I make an end of it to-day. Go! Take your cattle and leave my town and _never come back again_!" No man moved or spoke. They were utterly shamed and bewildered. Then one white man, who had lived in the town since he was a lad, pleaded with Khama for pity as an old friend. "You," said the chief with biting irony, "my friend? You--the ringleader of those who despise my laws. You are my worst enemy. You pray for pity? No! for you I have no pity. It is my duty to have pity on my people over whom God placed me, and I am going to show them pity to-day; and that is my duty to them and to God.... Go!" And they all went. Then the chief ordered in his young warriors and huntsmen. "No one of you," he said, "is to drink beer." Then he called a great meeting of the whole town. In serried masses thousand upon thousand the Bamangwato faced their great chief. He lifted up his voice: "I, Khama, your chief, order that you shall not make beer. You take the corn that God has given to us in answer to our prayers and you destroy it. Nay, you not only destroy it, but you make stuff with it that causes mischief among you." There was some murmuring. His eyes flashed like steel. "You can kill me," he said, "but you cannot conquer me." * * * * * _The Black Prince of Eighty_