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The word went out into a dead silence, so that it was heard to the farthest confines of the hushed camp. "Let no man hereafter miss the trail." He arose and entered his tent. Cazi Moto was there, unfolding the canvas bath tub, laying out the clean clothes. He looked up from his occupation, his wizened face contorted in a shrewd smile.
"Here, this won't do!" he said aloud. "If I get the wrong stuff in my eyes it will destroy them permanently." He raised his voice for Cazi Moto. "When Bibi-ya-chui is awake," he told the headman, "I want to see her. Tell her to come." Kingozi washed, dressed, had his breakfast, and sat quietly in his chair. In the open he found that he had a dim consciousness of light, but that was all.
The foothills began to sketch themselves, to separate from the ranges, finally to surround the travellers with the low swells of broken country. Running water replaced the still water- holes. Cazi Moto reported herds of goats in the distance. One evening several of the goatherds ventured into camp.
If you would go back, you would not be captured and held by Winkleman when you reach M'tela!" But such expostulations she knew to be vain, even as she uttered them. At about nine o'clock of the third day Cazi Moto reported a file of warriors, many warriors "like the leaves of grass!" armed with spears and shields, wearing black ostrich plumes, debouching from the grove a mile across the way.
Immediately in front of him, and ten feet away, stood the manacled Nubian, with an armed man at either elbow. Behind them, in turn, were grouped silently all the combined safaris. At his own elbows stood Cazi Moto and Simba possibly Mali-ya-bwana. He allowed an impressive wait to ensue. Then abruptly he began his interrogation.
But fortunes of war it is but the fortunes of war I would have done worse to you. How long is it that you have arrived?" "Long enough," replied Kingozi briefly. "Oh, Cazi Moto, bring tea! I have had your tent pitched, Doctor Winkleman; and you must bathe and change and rest. But before you go we must understand each other. This is war time, and you are my prisoner.
At last the white man's fingers made out distinctly a capital M. He erased it with a sweep of the hand. "That part of the barua again," he ordered. After a time Cazi Moto repeated the feat. "Once more." This was quicker. Kingozi dropped that bottle into his side pocket with a sigh of relief. "Evidently the morphine," he said. "We'll try it again later to be sure.
Cazi Moto was dressed in clean khaki, and bore in his hand a balauri of steaming tea. Kingozi seized this and drained it to the bottom. "That is good," he commented gratefully. "I did not expect to see you, Cazi Moto. Did all the men get in?" "Yes, bwana." "Vema! And the men of the Leopard Woman?" "Many died, bwana; but many are here." Kingozi arose to his feet. "I must have food.
He wore a piece of cotton cloth dyed black, so draped as to leave one arm and shoulder bare, a polished bone armlet, and a tarboush that must have been traded through many hands. "The sultani, bwana," murmured the ever-alert Cazi Moto. M'tela wandered to where Kingozi sat. The white man did not move, but appeared to stare absently straight before him.
The tiny porter's tents had completed their circle, and in front of each new smoke was beginning to rise. Cazi Moto glided up and handed him the kiboko, the rhinoceros-hide whip, the symbol of authority. Everything was in order. The white man rose a little stiffly and walked over to the pile of meat.
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