or to run where their eyes should lead them, though it would result in leaving them to the caprice of fate.
So in uncertainty, alarm, and amazement they only whispered to each other:
"Oh, mother! What creatures are these which have come to us, and what awaits us at their hands?"
But at this Kali, having ridden within a spear's throw of them, stood up in the stirrups and began to shout:
"People! people! Listen to the voice of Kali, the son of Fumba, the mighty king of the Wahimas on the shores of Bassa-Narok. Oh listen, listen, and if you understand his speech, pay heed to each word that he utters."
"We understand," rang the answer of three hundred mouths.
"Let your king stand forth; let him tell his name and let him open his ears and lips that he may hear better."
"M'Rua! M'Rua!" numerous voices began to cry.
M'Rua stepped in front of the ranks, but not more than three paces. He was a negro, already old, tall and powerfully built, but evidently did not suffer from too much courage, as the calves of his legs quivered so that he had to implant the edge of a spear in the ground and support himself on the shaft in order to stand on his legs.
After his example, the other warriors also drove the spears into the ground in sign that they wanted to hear peaceably the words of the arrival.
And Kali again raised his voice.
"M'Rua, and you, M'Rua's men, you heard that to you speaks the son of the king of the Wahimas, whose cows cover as thickly the mountains around the Bassa-Narok as the ants cover the body of a slain giraffe. And what says Kali, the son of the king of Wahima? Lo, he announces to you the great and happy tidings that there comes to your village the 'Good Mzimu.'"
