"Fire has no power of hurt on those whose heart is pure." But as I spoke I looked at my left hand.

It was black, my father--black as a charred stick, and the nails were gone from the twisted fingers.
Look at it now, my father; you can see, though my eyes are blind.

The hand is white, like yours--it is white and dead and shrivelled.

These are the marks of the fire in Chaka's hut--the fire that kissed me many, many years ago; I have had but little use of that hand since this night of torment.

But my right arm yet remained to me, my father, and, ah! I used it.
"It seems that Nobela, the doctress, who is dead, lied when she prophesied evil on me from thee, Mopo," said Chaka again.