"Nkosikaas! All powerful Queen of Swaziland," Lomwazi chanted. "Oom Tuys and Mzaan Bakoor, great white indunas, have come to see you. They bring presents and would be overjoyed forever if you would look upon them and accept their great tribute!"
Some of this was true, but all of it was the proper sort of thing at Zombode. Labotsibeni listened intently, and when her vizier finished she spoke in her old cracked voice:
"Tell my white sons that I am proud to welcome them to Swaziland and will grant them an audience."
Thereupon we entered the hut. There were at least a dozen maids-of-honor attending the old queen, and several of these spread mats for us to sit on. Some of these women were working on freshly tanned hides from which they were fashioning skirts, and the odor of the skins tainted the air of the hut. I am accustomed to this smell and do not find it unpleasant, but both Snyman and Biddy soon had all of it they could stand.
The old queen lay on her stomach with her head propped up by her hands. Within easy reach was a pile of leaves, and at intervals she would take one of these, wipe her lips and fingers with it, and thrust it through the open doorway. Her hands were small and beautifully shaped and her nails were spotlessly clean and perfectly manicured. Later I learned that her maids spent hours taking care of her hands, their only tools for manicuring the royal nails being bits of broken bottle-glass.
Remembering Tuys's warning, I complimented her on her looks, beautiful hands, and the cleanliness of her hut and kraal. I told her that her royal abode was an example for all the other native kings of the Transvaal and generally explained to her what a superior person she was. She listened intently to my flattery and appreciated it greatly.
Near her was the bottle of gin we had sent ahead. It was more than half finished and she took a drink while I was delivering my flattering oration. She reached for the bottle and Debeseembie assisted her to get the drink by pouring out more than half an earthen mug full of the fiery liquid. With one swallow she gulped it down, and then almost choked. This gave me my cue, and I told her how moderate she was and how refined in her way of drinking gin.