"Save me, white lord!" he howled. "You are the greatest of magicians
and I am your slave."
Here I cut him short by clapping the pot bottom upwards on his burning
head, into which it vanished as a candle does into an extinguisher.
Smoke and a bad smell issued from beneath the pot, the water from
which ran all over Imbozwi, who stood quite still. When I was sure the
fire was out, I lifted the pot and revealed the discomfited wizard,
but without his elaborate head-dress. Beyond a little scorching he was
not in the least hurt, for I had acted in time; only he was bald, for
when touched the charred hair fell off at the roots.
"It is gone," he said in an amazed voice after feeling at his scalp.
"Yes," I answered, "quite. The magic shield worked very well, did it
not?"
"Can you put it back again, white lord?" he asked.
"That will depend upon how you behave," I replied.
Then without another word he turned and walked back to the soldiers,
who received him with shouts of laughter. Evidently Imbozwi was not a
popular character, and his discomfiture delighted them.
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