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Updated: June 17, 2025
The embarrassment met his sterner mood in a head-on collision, so that for a moment the impulsive speech failed him. She spoke first. "That was Winkleman, I suppose," she said. "I did not want to appear. What is decided?" "Decided?" he stammered, not knowing where to look, but unable to keep his eyes from straying. "Yes. Is it too late? Can he prevail with this M'tela after all?"
She glanced curiously at the bushy savages. "Here," said Kingozi, holding out the letter, "is a barua for you from your friend Winkleman in the Congo." The shock of surprise held her speechless for a moment. "Your blindness is well! You can see!" she cried then. Kingozi raised his head sharply, for there was a lilt of relief and gladness in her voice. "No," he answered, "just ordinary deduction.
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.
The consequence was, that, by dinner-time, he felt a good deal ashamed of himself, and grieved for the pain he knew his hasty words had occasioned. It was in this better state of mind that Mr. Winkleman returned home. The house seemed still as he entered. As he proceeded up stairs, he heard the children's voices, pitched to a low key, in the nursery.
But that does not matter are they Inglishee or Duyche?" "These shenzis do not know the difference." "That is true. How far away are they?" "Very near, bwana." "Get my gun. Have Simba follow me. Here, you lead the way." They marched rapidly through the forest path and past the palace of M'tela, which Kingozi had never seen. The savage king came out, and Winkleman and his bodyguard soon followed.
I am beginning to learn their language. Culbertson, I find these people speak the true click language, but also I find it true sex-denoting language most resembling in that respect the ancient Fula!" "Where was this? Impossible!" cried Kingozi, interested and excited. "Ah!" roared Winkleman with satisfaction. "I thought I would your interest catch! But it is true; and in the central Congo."
He looked about him with a thankfulness not to be understood save by one whose sight has been thus unexpectedly restored. Winkleman followed him full of deep sympathy. "But I understand," he repeated over and over, "but it is like water on a weary march, nicht wahr. But this is bad, very bad! You say it has been going on for a month? And a month back! Too late. Ach, schrecklich!
And here, where we stand, it is perhaps twenty days, perhaps more. Winkleman would arrive nearly two weeks ahead of you. Tell me, how long would it take you to win M'tela's friendship so it would not be shaken?" Kingozi's face lit with a grim smile. "A week," he promised confidently. "You see! And Herr Winkleman is equal to you; you have said so yourself. Is not it so?" "It's so, all right."
Her manner was very gentle; and she looked on him, could he have known it, with eyes of a tender compassion. His was a brave heart, but Winkleman must long since have arrived She moved slowly away to superintend the placing of her tent, reflecting on these matters. It was decent of Winkleman to keep himself in the background just at first.
Words, to her, were indeed things. They never fell upon her ears as idle sounds. How often was her poor heart bruised by them! On this particular morning, Mrs. Winkleman, whose health was feeble, found herself in a weak, nervous state. It was only by an effort that she could rise above the morbid irritability that afflicted her.
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