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At nightfall they saw, across a valley, the edge of the Mambava forests, the towering tree trunks banked with huge thickets and bound together by nets of vines. They camped in the valley, where a stream flowed through a tangle of indigo plants.
Next day, with an escort of Mambava warriors, Lawrence Teck set out for the coast. At the bidding of the king, to do honor to the white man who was leaving them, they had put on their gala paint, and their plumed headgear bound under their chins with fur lappets. Their bangles made a cheerful clatter as they marched along the dim trails between the enormous trees. They carried food for two weeks.
The Wasena, who bore the hammock, muttered to one another dolefully as they shuffled along. All knew by this time that they were not headed for Fort Pero d'Anhaya. Avoiding that last outpost of civilization, they were approaching the country of the Mambava, which lay behind the steamy sunshine, below the blue and lavender battlements of granite, in the uplands covered with forests.
Four months passed, however, before Lilla received a letter from Parr, the valet. It had happened in the country of the Mambava. That tribe, despite their well-known animosity to strangers, had not been hostile to Lawrence. Indeed, he had won the friendship of their king. Yet it was in the king's stronghold that the tragedy had happened.
In that land, he declared, none would dare to hurt the friends of Muene-Motapa's friend. They should return telling how they had passed unharmed, even honored, through the country of the Mambava. He promised them double pay while groping for some further argument, he seemed to be sinking in upon himself. His face drooped forward. From the horde of porters came scattered shouts: "Enough!
His oration was less coherent than the Wasena's, but more dramatic. "The first moon since the rains! The season when the Mambava hold their great dances! It is now that their forest will be full of music, while their warriors gather in the place that they know of, to dance to the moon. We will not enter the country of the Mambava while they dance to the moon!"
Through the buzz of insects there came from the forest, gradually blending over wide distances, a gentle throbbing. The porters lifted their round heads beyond the fires. The sharp profiles of the askaris were motionless. A wail floated over the camp: "The drums of the Mambava!" The throbbing died away. But soon it began again in the north, then in the south, and swelled to a continuous rumbling.
On the waterproof floor cloth squatted a Mambava warrior, a messenger from King Muene-Motapa. "Give the word, Bangana. Give the word, Brother of the King. We will carry you to the King's town on a litter as soft as the clouds. The wizards shall work their charms to make you well. The Dances of the Moon are about to begin: it is the time of answered prayers.
Suddenly he sat up on his haunches. His body jumped from the beating of his heart. He fixed on Lilla a look that was the utmost caricature of terror and entreaty. An askari let out a neighing laugh: "So this is one of the dangerous Mambava!" But the albino was not one of the Mambava. He was a man of the Manyazombe, who dwelt in the north an exile, a solitary wanderer, a lost soul.
For the albino, while creeping round that camp in the Mambava forests, had heard of a strange thing, of the shooting of one of the white men in the night. Those discussing the matter had not known how it had happened, since they had all been asleep. The white man was then dying. By this time, no doubt, he was dead. She sank back as if she, too, had received a bullet.
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