Part 16 (1/2)

Suddenly the warriors cried out in a loud voice, and raised their right arms and spears rigidly above their heads. A tall, heavily built man appeared around the bend. He was followed by two young women, who flanked him by a pace or so to the rear. They were so laden with savage riches as to be almost concealed beneath the strings of cowrie sh.e.l.ls and bands of beads. In contrast the man wore only a long black cotton blanket draped to leave one shoulder and arm bare. Not an earring, not a bangle, not even a finger ring or a bead strap relieved the sombre simplicity of the black robe and the dark skin.

”But this man is an artist!” murmured Bibi-ya-chui. ”He understands effect! This is stage managed!”

The _sultani_ approached without haste. He stopped squarely before Kingozi's chair. The latter did not rise. The two men stared into each other's eyes for a full minute, without embarra.s.sment, without contest, without defiance. Then the black man spoke.

”_Jambo, bwana_,” he rumbled in a deep voice.

”_Jambo, sultani_” replied Kingozi calmly.

They shook hands.

With regal deliberation the visitor arranged his robes and sat down in the battered old canvas chair. A silence that lasted nearly five minutes ensued.

”I thank you, _sultani_, for the help your men have given. I thank you for the houses. I thank you for these gifts.”

The _sultani_ waved his hand magnificently.

”It is not the custom of white men to give gifts until their departure,” continued Kingozi, ”but this knife is yours to make friends.h.i.+p.”

He handed over a knife, of Swedish manufacture, the blade of which disappeared into the handle in a most curious fas.h.i.+on. The _sultani's_ eyes lit up with an almost childish delight, but his countenance showed no emotion. He pa.s.sed the knife on to the dignitary who stood behind his chair.

”This,” said Kingozi, taking one of the steaming _balauris_ from Cazi Moto, ”is the white man's _tembo_.”

The _sultani_ tasted doubtfully. He was pleased. He gave back the _balauri_ at last with a final smack of the lips.

”Good!” said he.

Another full five minutes of silence ensued. Then the _sultani_ arose.

He cast a glance about him, his eye, avid with curiosity, held rigidly in restraint. It rested on the Leopard Woman.

”I see you have one of your women with you,” he remarked.

He turned, without further ceremony, and stalked off, followed at a few paces by the two richly ornamented girls. The warriors again raised their spears aloft, holding them thus until their lord had rounded the cliff. Then, the women in precedence, they marched away. Kingozi puffed his pipe indifferently.

The Leopard Woman was visibly impatient, visibly roused.

”Are you letting him go?” she demanded. ”Do not you inquire the country? Do not you ask for _potio_, for guides?”

”Not to-day,” replied Kingozi. He turned deliberately to face her, his eyes serious. ”Please realize once for all that we live here only by force of _prestige_. My only chance of getting on, our only chance of safety rests on my ability to impress this man with the idea that I am a bigger lord than he. And, remember, I have lived in savage Africa for fifteen years, and I know what I am doing. This is very serious. You must not interfere; and you must not suggest.”

The Leopard Woman's eyes glittered dangerously, but she controlled herself.

”You talk like a sultan yourself,” she protested at length. ”You should not use that tone to me.”

Kingozi brushed the point aside with a large gesture.

”I will play the game of courtesy with you, yes,” said he, ”but only when it does not interfere with serious things. In this matter there must be no indefiniteness, no chance for misunderstanding. Politeness, between the s.e.xes, means both. I will repeat: in this you must leave me free hand no interference, no suggestion.”

”And if I disobey your commands?” she challenged, with an emphasis on the last word.