This young man's tense face and the keen eyes that
glowed in the firelight showed his contempt for those who swaggered so
much and did so little. He was Khama, the son of Sekhome, the chief.
The wild flames gleamed on him as he stood there, full six feet of
tireless manhood leaning on his gun, like a superb statue carved in
ebony. Those swift, spare limbs of his, that could keep pace with a
galloping horse, gave him the right to his name, Khama--the Antelope.
The voices dropped, and the men, rolling themselves in the skins of
wild beasts, lay down and slept--all except one, whose eyes watched in
the darkness as sleeplessly as the stars. When they were asleep Khama
took up his gun and went out into the starry night.
The night passed. As the first flush of dawn paled the stars, and
the men around the cold ashes of the fire sat up, they gazed in
awed amazement. For they saw, striding toward them, their tall young
chieftain; and over his shoulders hung the tawny skin and mane of a
full-grown king lion. Alone in the night he had slain the terror of
the tribe!
The men who had boasted of what they meant to do and had never
performed, never heard Khama--either at that time or later--make any
mention of this great feat.
It was no wonder that the great Bamangwato tribe looked at the tall,
silent, resolute young chieftain and, comparing him with his crafty
father Sekhome and his treacherous, cowardly younger brother Khamane,
said, "Khama is our _boikanyo_--our confidence.
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