weapons were powerless against it.

      Jambúla stepped to my side, every muscle of his frame tense with the excitement of the moment. His shield was thrust, forward, and his right hand gripped the haft of a broad-bladed stabbing spear. But I—no movement did I make towards using a weapon. I advanced straight upon the beast, and as I did so, some force I knew not caused my hand to rest upon the múti bag which hung upon my breast.

      With a snarling roar the beast moved forward a little, preparing for its rush. We were but ten paces apart. Then the fierce lashing of the tail ceased, the awful eyes seemed to glare with fear where rage had fired them before—the thunder of the threatening roar became as the shrill whine of a crowd of terrified women—and, backing before me as I advanced, the huge beast slunk away in the cover, and we could hear its frightened winnings growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

      By this, Nkose, two things were clear—that the shape, though that of a huge and savage lion, was but a shape to give cover to something which was not of this world—and that Lalusini’s múti was capable of accomplishing strange and wonderful results.