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"That's all very well where the white man's influence reaches. But not here. I doubt if there are three men in this people who have ever even seen a white man. Of course they have all heard of us, and know a good deal about us. We must stand on our dignity here. Let the sultani come to us, all in his own time. Without his goodwill we cannot move a step farther, we cannot get a pound of potio."
"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.
For long periods at a time nothing at all was said. Then for equally long periods a lively conversation went on, through an interpreter mostly, though occasionally the sultani launched into his bastard Swahili or Kingozi ventured a few words in the new tongue. Once in a while some intimate would saunter into view, and would be summoned by his king. This was a very successful trick.
He passed 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.
Far very far perhaps a month, who knows, is the country of the sultani M'tela. This is a very great sultani very great indeed a sultani whose spears are like the leaves of grass. His people are fierce, like the Masai, like the people of Lobengula, and make war their trade. His people are known as the Kabilagani. The way through the mountains is known; guides can be had.
She turned to Walsh with an engaging smile. "And you, where you came, did you pass the people who live in the mountains back there, with a sultani who dressed in black " "I know," supplemented Captain Walsh, "very well." "The sultani whose place has a fortified gate." "Really? We did not get to his village; too much of a hurry." The Leopard Woman shot a glance at Kingozi.
He is a very powerful chief next to the sultani. Are not you afraid that your treatment of him will make trouble? You were not polite." "What else have you heard?" "This sultani has apparently several hundred villages. They keep goats, fat-tailed sheep, and some few cattle. They raise m'wembe, beans, peanuts, and bananas. They have a war caste of young men." Kingozi listened to her attentively.
Whenever the location of water-holes permitted, the safari made long jumps. The two messengers sent out with a scrawled letter to Doctor McCloud whom they knew as Bwana Marefu were of course far ahead. With any luck Kingozi hoped to meet the surgeon not far from the mountains where dwelt the sultani of the ivory stockade. Thus the march went through a fortnight.
"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 embarrassment, without contest, without defiance. Then the black man spoke. "Jambo, bwana," he rumbled in a deep voice.
About sundown the sultani would depart, followed shortly by the last straggler of his people. The succeeding hours were clear of shenzis, for either the custom of the country or the presence of strangers seemed to demand an n'goma every evening. In the night stillness sounds carried readily.
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