But mark what happened. As is not uncommon in the case of thunder
showers, this rain fell upon the lands which the heathen cultivated on
one side of the koppie, whereas those that belonged to the Christian
section upon the other side received not a single drop. The unjust were
bedewed, the just were left dry as bones. All that they received was the
lightning, which killed an old man, one of the best Christians in the
place. The limits of the torrent might have been marked off with a line.
When it had passed, to the heathen right stood pools of water; to the
Christian left there was nothing but blowing dust.
Now these Christians, weak-kneed some of them, began to murmur,
especially those who, having passed through a similar experience in
their youth, remembered what starvation meant in that country. Religion,
they reflected, was all very well, but without mealies they could
not live, and without Kaffir corn there would be no beer. Indeed,
metaphorically, before long they passed from murmurs to shouting,
and their shouts said this: Menzi must be invited to celebrate a
rain-service in his own fashion for the benefit of the entire tribe.
Thomas argued in vain. He grew angry; he called them names which
doubtless they deserved; he said that they were spiritual outcasts.
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