Moved by the ever-present curiosity to know what was going on inside other people’s minds, he called Bakuma and Mungongo to him, observing the sprightly action of the boy moved by his faith in him for his good in contrast to the dull movements of the girl in her lack of confidence to make for her good. And when they were come to him and were seated on the ground at his feet he said to Bakuma:
“Wherefore hast thou the black bird within thy breast, O Bakuma?”
She gazed up at him with the pathetic pleading of a gazelle.
“Do not birds seek the broken twigs for the building of nests, O Moonspirit?”
“Truly, but why are the branches of thy tree rotted and broken?”
“When the axe of the peasant pecks at the roots of the tree dost thou think then that the sap runs the more swiftly, knowing?”
“A devil hast told thee this thing, O Bakuma. When the sun was but a man’s height did not a jackal break out of the forest seeking to devour, and yet the chicken was neither hurt nor taken. Are these not white words?”
“Truly, O Moonspirit,” acknowledged Bakuma reluctantly.
“Was not then the magic of Moonspirit more potent than that of thy wizards?”
“Wherefore then hast thou ashes in thy mouth?”
Bakuma dismally contemplated Birnier’s booted leg.
“Eh!” grunted the sophisticated Mungongo, “to those who live on the mountain the crocodile is not!”
“Open thy breasts unto me, O Bakuma,” said Birnier.
“Clk!” she gasped, making a little gesture of hopelessness. “When the sun shines are not the flowers open? But when the night hath come where are the flowers? The deer feed on sweet pastures, but when the shadow of the lion falleth upon the grass hath not a great cloud come over the world?”
She gazed at the white man with curious wonderment at the stupidity of one failing to comprehend the simplest problem. She sighed and then as if with much patience for another’s shortcomings:
“Thou hast strong magic, O white man,” said she, “magic that makes the magic of Bakahenzie to fall as water. Yet was the daughter of Bakala not found by divination? Was the daughter of Bakala not revealed to be the bride of the Banana by divination? There shall be made magic that the voice of the one shall be obeyed. Eh! Aiee! Aie!”
The brown eyes welled opals which splashed upon a bronze breast. As Birnier watched her, pity stimulated a desire to relieve this symbol of self-torture, and he thought of a favourite passage in the “Anatomy”: