The peasant answered, trembling, and perspiring through excessive fear, “Eh, don’t you know? This is Uganda.” “And who was the first king?” demanded the old man. “Come tell me his name?” “Kintu,” answered the peasant. “True,” said the old man. “Now tell me the name of the present king.” “Ma’anda,” replied the peasant. “Well then, depart instantly, and haste to Ma’anda the king, and bid him come to Kintu, who shall be here to meet him, for Ma’anda has long searched for Kintu, and Kintu has somewhat to tell Ma’anda. Bid him come hither accompanied only by his mother and thyself, and mark me, not even his dog must follow him. Haste and tell King Ma’anda all thou hast seen and heard, and if thou art faithful, thy reward shall be great.” The peasant needed to hear no more, but turned and fled away with the speed of an antelope, and early at dawn next day arrived at the capital, and proceeded direct to the Katekiro, to whom he said, “I have news to tell King Ma’anda, and no man else must hear it. Take me to the king without delay.” The man’s manner, though he was mean in appearance, was peremptory, and the Katekiro dared not refuse his request, but rose and conducted him to the king. It happened, strangely enough, that at the same moment Ma’anda was relating to his mother, whom he had sent for, the story of a strange dream he had dreamed during the night. He had scarcely finished its relation when the Katekiro was announced, who said to him, “King, here is a strange man, a peasant, I believe, who states that he has important news to tell thee, and thee alone,” which when the king heard, and had seen the peasant, he said to his mother, “Lo! now, this is the very man I saw in my dream, who told me such wonderful news.” Then turning eagerly to the peasant, he said to him, “Speak, man, what is it thou hast to say to me?” “O, king,” he replied, “I may not speak except to thee and thy mother, for so have I been commanded.” Then Ma’anda impatiently commanded the Katekiro to retire and, that they might not be disturbed, to set a guard at the outer gate, so that on no account either man, woman, or child might enter the inner court. When they were quite alone, the peasant began to unfold to Ma’anda his story from the beginning to the end, just as it is told here, concluding with the old man’s words: “Bid the king come with his mother and thyself, and, mark me, not even his dog must follow him.” On hearing this news, Ma’anda said, “Come, let us go, only us three, for so the old man said,” and taking his spear and shield, the king strode out of the inner court through a private gate followed by his mother and the peasant without communicating to a soul else whither he was going.