Although, of
course, I did not believe a word of all the rubbish he had been
saying, which was akin to much that is evolved by these black-hearted
African wizards, I hated the creature whom I felt to be only half-
human. My whole nature sickened at his aspect and talk. And yet I was
dreadfully afraid of him. I felt as a man might who wakes up to find
himself alone with some peculiarly disgusting Christmas-story kind of
ghost. Moreover I was quite sure that he meant us ill, fearful and
imminent ill. Suddenly he spoke again:
"Who is that little yellow one," he said, "that old one with a face
like a skull," and he pointed to Hans, who had kept as much out of
sight as possible behind Mavovo, "that wizened, snub-nosed one who
might be a child of my brother the god, if ever he had a child? And
why, being so small, does he need so large a staff?" Here he pointed
again to Hans's big bamboo stick. "I think he is as full of guile as a
new-filled gourd with water. The big black one," and he looked at
Mavovo, "I do not fear, for his magic is less than my magic," (he
seemed to recognise a brother doctor in Mavovo) "but the little yellow
one with the big stick and the pack upon his back, I fear him.
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