Several "waganga," recognizable by their badges
of conical shellwork, came boldly forward. They were
the sorcerers of the place. They bore in their girdles
small gourds, coated with tallow, and several other
articles of witchcraft, all of them, by-the-way, most
professionally filthy.
Little by little the crowd gathered beside them, the
women and children grouped around them, the drums
renewed their deafening uproar, hands were violently
clapped together, and then raised toward the sky.
"That's their style of praying," said the doctor; "and,
if I'm not mistaken, we're going to be called upon to play
a great part."
"Well, sir, play it!"
"You, too, my good Joe--perhaps you're to be a god!"
"Well, master, that won't trouble me much. I like a
little flattery!"
At this moment, one of the sorcerers, a "myanga,"
made a sign, and all the clamor died away into the
profoundest silence. He then addressed a few words to the
strangers, but in an unknown tongue.
Dr. Ferguson, not having understood them, shouted
some sentences in Arabic, at a venture, and was
immediately answered in that language.
The speaker below then delivered himself of a very
copious harangue, which was also very flowery and very
gravely listened to by his audience.
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