The old priest would speak some words, and the reply came in barbaric music.
The words meant nothing to me; they must have been in some tongue long since dead.

But the music told its own tale.

It spoke of old kings and great battles, of splendid palaces and strong battlements, of queens white as ivory, of death and life, love and hate, joy and sorrow.

It spoke, too, of desperate things, mysteries of horror long shut to the world.

No Kaffir ever forged that ritual.