Hurrying out to see what was the matter, I was met by a ludicrous sight. The little Frenchman was running up the courtyard at an extraordinary speed, and after him sped Umslopogaas like a great greyhound. Just as I came out he caught him, and, lifting him right off his legs, carried him some paces to a beautiful but very dense flowering shrub which bore a flower not unlike the gardenia, but was covered with short thorns. Next, despite his howls and struggles, he with one mighty thrust plunged poor Alphonse head first into the bush, so that nothing but the calves of his legs and his heels remained in evidence. Then, satisfied with what he had done, the Zulu folded his arms and stood grimly contemplating the Frenchman’s kicks, and listening to his yells, which were awful.
“What art thou doing?” I said, running up. “Wouldst thou kill the man? Pull him out of the bush!”
With a savage grunt he obeyed, seizing the wretched Alphonse by the ankle, and with a jerk that must have nearly dislocated it, tearing him out of the heart of the shrub. Never did I see such a sight as he presented, his clothes half torn off his back, and bleeding as he was in every direction from the sharp thorns. There he lay, and yelled and rolled, and there was no getting anything out of him.
At last, however, he got up and, ensconcing himself behind me, cursed old Umslopogaas by every saint in the calendar, vowing by the blood of his heroic grandfather that he would poison him, and “have his revenge.”
At last I got to the truth of the matter. It appeared that Alphonse habitually cooked Umslopogaas’s porridge, which the latter ate for breakfast in the corner of the courtyard, just as he would have done at home in Zululand, from a gourd, and with a wooden spoon. Now Umslopogaas had, like many Zulus, a great horror of fish, which he considered a species of water-snake; so Alphonse, who was as fond of playing tricks as a monkey, and who was also a consummate cook, determined to make him eat some. Accordingly he grated up a quantity of white fish very finely, and mixed it with the Zulu’s porridge, who swallowed it nearly all down in ignorance of what he was eating. But unfortunately for Alphonse, he could not restrain his joy at this sight, and came capering and peering round, till at last Umslopogaas, who was very clever in his way, suspected something, and, after a careful examination of the remains of his porridge, discovered “the buffalo heifer’s trick,” and, in revenge, served him as I have said. Indeed, the little man was fortunate not to get a broken neck for his pains; for, as one would have thought, he might have learned from the episode of his display of axemanship that “le Monsieur noir” was an ill person to play practical jokes upon.
This incident was unimportant enough in itself, but I narrate it because it led to serious consequences. As soon as he had staunched the bleeding from his scratches and washed himself, Alphonse went off, still cursing, to recover his temper, a process which I knew from experience would take a very long time. When he had gone I gave Umslopogaas a jobation, and told him that I was ashamed of his behaviour.
“Ah, well, Macumazahn,” he said, “you must be gentle with me, for here is not my place. I am weary of it—weary to death of eating and drinking, of sleeping and giving in marriage. I love not this soft life in stone houses that takes the heart out of a man, and turns his strength to water and his flesh to fat. I love not the white robes and the delicate women, the blowing of trumpets and the flying of hawks. When we fought the Masai at the kraal yonder, ah, then life was worth the living; but here is never a blow struck in anger, and I begin to think I shall go the way of my fathers and lift Inkosi-Kaas no more,” and he held up the axe and gazed at it in sorrow.
“Ah,” I said, “that is thy complaint, is it? Thou hast the blood-sickness, hast thou? And the Woodpecker wants a tree. And at thy age, too. Shame on thee, Umslopogaas!”
“Ay, Macumazahn, mine is a red trade, yet is it better and more honest than some. Better is it to slay a man in fair fight than to suck out his heart’s blood in buying and selling and usury, after your white fashion. Many a man have I slain, yet is there never a one that I should fear to look in the face again; ay, many are there who once were friends, and whom I should be right glad to snuff with. But there! there! thou hast thy ways, and I mine, each to his own people and his own place. The high-veldt ox will die in the fat bush country, and so is it with me, Macumazahn. I am rough, I know it, and when my
