"Am I supposed to speak?" asked the Leopard Woman.
"Shouldn't we order out our _askaris_ with their guns to make the parade?"
"No. We could not hope to equal this show, possibly. Our lay is to do the supercilious indifferent." He turned to his attentive satellite. "Cazi Moto," he ordered, "tell our people, quietly, to go back to their camps. They must not stand and stare at these _shenzis_. And tell M'pishi to make large _balauris_ of coffee, and put in plenty of sugar."
Cazi Moto grinned understandingly, and glided away. Shortly the safari men could be seen sauntering unconcernedly back to their little fires.
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 shells 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 embarrassment, without contest, without defiance. Then the black man spoke.
"_Jambo, bwana_," he rumbled in a deep voice.
"_Jambo, sultani_" replied Kingozi calmly.
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 friendship."
He handed over a knife, of Swedish manufacture, the blade of which disappeared into the handle in a most curious fashion. The _sultani's_ eyes lit up with an almost childish delight, but his countenance showed no emotion. He passed the knife on to the dignitary who stood behind his chair.