but Nozilwane rushes about like one possessed, sobbing and quivering with
excitement, “It is this—it is that!” The tall Nozinyanga strikes her lance firmly
into the ground, and cries haughtily, in her own tongue, “It is his watch!”
throwing around a haughty glance, as if daring any one to contradict her. The
others then join hands, and gallop round and round, making a suggestion here
and a suggestion there, all alike improbable; the “inquirers,” as the kneeling men
are called, affording them no assistance. At last Nozilwane strikes home: “His
pipe!” she exclaims; “Yoziva, yoziva, a thing which has come off his pipe.”
And so it is. Nozilwane’s pluck, and perseverance, and cunning scrutiny of our
faces at each hit she made, have brought her off victoriously.
A murmur, or rather grunt, of admiration goes around. The “inquirers” jump up,
and “subside into ebony images of impassive respectability.” The weary chorus
disperses in small groups, and the exhausted sisterhood drop, as if by one
consent, on their knees, sitting back on their heels, and raise their right hands in
salutation.[43]