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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Why, there are hundreds and hundreds of them and the smallest worth not less than fifty pounds!" Her eyes answered him whole-heartedly, for her imagination was afire. "What magnificence!" she replied. "The thought is great a palace of ivory! This is kingly!" But the light had died in Kingozi's eyes. "Won't do!" he muttered to her. "Compose your face. Come."
Perfectly she understood those who, having reached the breaking point, dashed madly through the fire scattering embers and coals, or who darted forward to kiss ecstatically the white man's feet, or who reached a wild paroxysm of nerves to collapse the next instant into exhaustion. She was brought to herself by Kingozi's calm voice. "Sweet riot, isn't it?" he remarked.
Therefore Simba set forth, taking with him, according to African custom, one of the porters as companion. He carried Kingozi's rifle, but left that belonging to Winkleman with Mali-ya-bwana. Winkleman watched Simba go with considerable satisfaction. Mali-ya-bwana was a man much above average African intelligence, but he had not the experience, the initiative, the flaire of Simba.
As though the words had been a magic spell the mountains seemed in Kingozi's imagination to diminish in size and to move forward. They had assured a definite proportion, a definite position. Their distance could be estimated. "And how far?" he asked. "Very far, bwana," replied Simba gravely, "eleven hours; twelve hours." Kingozi reflected.
The three hours' march went well; the two hours followed with every one strong and cheerful; then two hours more without trouble. Kingozi's men were picked, and hard as nails. By now it was one o'clock; coming the hottest part of the day. The power of the vertical sun attained its maximum. Kingozi felt as though a heavy hand had been laid upon his head and was pressing him down.
"Winkleman read the labels on my bottles," he said sternly. "I have simply used the pilocarpin." "The pilocarpin! But that was destroyed!" So unmistakably genuine was her cry of amazement that Kingozi's heart leaped with joy. She had not known! He took a step toward the couch. But at this moment a wild hullabaloo broke out in the camp. Men yelled and shouted. Some one began to blow a horn.
Kingozi's strong will managed to keep to the foreground the details of his immediate duty; but to do so he had to sink all other considerations whatever. The same effort required to submerge all thought of the darkened years to come carried down also every recollection of the past.
Whatever was coming, he would front it serenely. The head of the safari appeared at the foot of the slope. It seemed a trifle uncertain as to where to go next, but catching sight of Kingozi's tents, it turned up the hill. Cazi Moto's keen eyes were searching out every detail; those of the Leopard Woman had suddenly become suffused with tears.
Some warning instinct brought him back to the world about him. His steps had taken him down the canon trail. He stood at the edge of the open plain. Facing him and not twenty yards distant stood a lion. The sight cleared Kingozi's brain of all its vapours. For the first time he realized clearly what he had done.
"Four hours." "Vema." Kingozi bestowed on him the word of highest praise. The stranger woman's camp was not far away; in fact, but just across the little dry stream-bed. Her safari was using the same pool with Kingozi's. At the edge of the camp he paused to take in its disposition. From one detail to another his eye wandered, and in it dawned a growing approval.
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