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Here Cazi Moto came up in great perturbation to announce that two of the memsahib's porters were missing. The little headman did not understand how it happened, as he had zealously brought up the rear. Unless, of course, it was a case of desertion. Kingozi looked thoughtful, then ordered camp to be pitched. Accompanied by Simba, Mali-ya-bwana, and three askaris he took the back track.
"Tell me, then, what is to be done?" Cazi Moto repeated the gist of what had been said. Kingozi nodded. "That is it." "Bwana?" Cazi Moto hesitated. "Yes. Speak." "That woman. Shall she be kibokoed or killed?" Kingozi caught back a chuckle. "No," he said gravely. "That will wait for later.
As he was drying his face Simba came for the guns, and a half-dozen of the porters prepared to strike and furl the tent. Already the canvas washstand had disappeared. "Simba," observed Kingozi in English, of which language Simba knew but three words, "she is no fool. She knows where there is water out yonder; but it is water at least forty miles away.
They had invaded the camp. Kingozi examined them keenly, with curiosity. Naked little boys and girls wandered gravely about; women clung together in groups; men squatted on their heels before anything that struck their attention, and stared.
Simba started away, still pointing. Winkleman followed a few steps. "There is more?" he asked. "Do you speak Swahili?" "Many more, bwana," Simba replied in the atrocious Swahili Kingozi had ordered. "Over there only a little distance." Everything turned out as Kingozi had promised. Bwana Nyele asked several more questions, received no replies, finally bellowed: "But lead me there, m'buzi!
It was a simple bit of deduction, but to these simpler minds it seemed miraculous. "Why did you wish to kill me?" he demanded. The Nubian, taken completely by surprise, began to chatter with fright. "I did not wish to kill you, bwana. I wished to kill Mavrouki." "That is a lie," said Kingozi equably. "Why should you wait for Mavrouki near my tent?
Kingozi had listened attentively. "Well, Cazi Moto?" he demanded. "But this is a lie; a bad lie," said Cazi Moto, "to say that white men make war on white men!" "Nevertheless it is true," rejoined Kingozi quietly. "These other white men are the Duyches , and they make war." He turned and walked back to his camp unassisted. He groped for his chair and sat down. His hand encountered the letter.
In her heart she thought it extremely unlikely that the performance would last all night. Indeed her own opinion was that Kingozi would be a prisoner within an hour. Kingozi settled himself stolidly in his chair before the fire that was now beginning to eat its way through an immense pile of fuel, where, during all subsequent events, he remained in the same attitude.
Cazi Moto worked painstakingly, his shrewd and wizened face puckered in absorption. He accomplished a legible Borroughs & Wellcome after many trials. Then he proceeded with the script. It seemed impossible to make a start; he did not even begin at the beginning, but was inclined to view the work as an entity and to begin drawing it at the top of the middle. Kingozi corrected that.
He passed the knife on to the dignitary who stood behind his chair. "This," said Kingozi, taking one of the steaming balauris from Cazi Moto, "is the white man's tembo." The sultani tasted doubtfully. He was pleased. He gave back the balauri at last with a final smack of the lips. "Good!" said he. Another full five minutes of silence ensued. Then the sultani arose.
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