"Oh! no, not dakka, that common stuff; this 'bacco much better than
dakka, only grow in Kendah-land. You think all nonsense? Well, you see.
Give me match please."

Then while we watched he placed some tobacco, at least it looked like
tobacco, in a little wooden bowl that he also produced from his basket.
Next he said something to his companion, Marût, who drew a flute from
his robe made out of a thick reed, and began to play on it a wild and
melancholy music, the sound of which seemed to affect my backbone as
standing on a great height often does. Presently too Harût broke into a
low song whereof I could not understand a word, that rose and fell with
the music of the flute. Now he struck a match, which seemed incongruous
in the midst of this semi-magical ceremony, and taking a pinch of the
tobacco, lit it and dropped it among the rest. A pale, blue smoke arose
from the bowl and with it a very sweet odour not unlike that of the
tuberoses gardeners grow in hot-houses, but more searching.

"Now you breath smoke, Macumazana," he said, "and tell us what you
see. Oh! no fear, that not hurt you. Just like cigarette. Look," and he
inhaled some of the vapour and blew it out through his nostrils, after
which his face seemed to change to me, though what the change was I
could not define.

I hesitated till Scroope said:

"Come, Allan, don't shirk this Central African adventure. I'll try if
you like."

"No," said Harût brusquely, "_you_ no good."