Tom Burnaby: A Story of Uganda and the Great Congo Forest

by Herbert Strang

CHAPTER XX: An End and a Beginning

Mr. Barkworth keeps Cool--In Suspense--Tom's Escort--The Padre's Story--An Appreciation--Tom's Reward--Farewell--Herr Schwab's Lament--Fame--Mbutu Returns Home--Inspiration--Proposals

One morning, towards the end of March, Mr. Barkworth was seated at breakfast at The Orchard, Winterslow, dividing his attentions impartially among his food, his letters, and his daughter, who sat facing him at the other end of the table. His day was never properly begun unless the letters and the bacon arrived together. He had opened two letters, and cut the third, and Lilian was pouring out his second cup of coffee, when a sudden ejaculation from her father caused her to hold her hand.

"Scandalous, 'pon my soul and body, perfectly scandalous!" he exclaimed.

"What is it, Father?" asked Lilian, not very anxiously, for she was accustomed to little volcanic explosions at home: plenty of rumble but no fire.

"What, indeed! Just listen to this, h'm! 'My dear Barkworth, I found an opportunity in the lobby last night of speaking to the Prime Minister on the matter of a search-expedition for your friend Mr. Burnaby. He was very sympathetic, but said that, much as he should have liked to serve me, he was afraid our hands were too full just now to think of it. One can understand it, poor man. You see, what with these complications threatening in Persia, and the various little troubles in all parts of the world, connected with our imperial policy, one can hardly expect--' Faugh!" He tore the letter across. "Fiddlesticks! I'd like to see Palmerston back for a week. We'd soon see then, h'm! We'd have an expedition off to Central Africa in a winking. We want a little more of the 'Civis Romanus sum' in our milk-and-water politicians. Cicero, you know, my dear."

"But, Father, I don't understand what Cicero and Lord Palmerston have to do with Mr. Burnaby."

"Now, that's just it. Women never can see that sort of thing; your mother couldn't, poor woman! I'll explain so that any child could understand it. Cicero was a great Roman orator and statesman, you know, my dear. In one of his speeches he asked how many Roman citizens his hearers imagined had been insulted with impunity, how many Roman merchants robbed, or ship-owners kept in captivity,--meaning that he defied 'em to say a single one. Now suppose that Cicero had been Lord Palmerston, what would he have said?--tell me that, now!"

"Wasn't Lord Palmerston an Irish peer, Father?"

"Eh! what? Yes, must have been, or he couldn't have sat in the House. But what's that to do with it?"

"Why, Father, if Cicero had been Lord Palmerston, would not he have said: 'Just thread on the tail of me coat', or something to that effect?"

Mr. Barkworth looked sharply at his daughter, but she was demurely peeling an egg. As he was hesitating whether to explode or not, there was a knock at the door, and a maid entered bearing a salver.

"A telegram, sir, and there's a shilling to pay."

"Con-found these extra charges!" broke out Mr. Barkworth irritably. "What's the good of paying taxes to bolster up a wretched Post Office that can't give us free delivery? Give the man his shilling, and tell him not to dare show his face again!"

He tore open the envelope, stared at the message for some moments in inarticulate surprise, and then ejaculated:

"God bless my soul, he's found! Tom's found! We can do without the Prime Minister! 'Gad, didn't I say he'd turn up some day! Listen, Lilian; a despatch from the cable company forwarded by the Post Office: 'Tom found; mail follows.--O'Brien.' Might have said a little more; what's a shilling or two, eh?--Well, Jane, what is it now?"

"Another telegram, sir, and, if you please, this man wants a shilling too."

Mr. Barkworth pulled out a handful of silver, and picked it over.

"Here, I can't find a shilling; give him this half-crown and tell him to put it in the Post Office Savings Bank. Now what's this about, h'm?"

Lilian watched him anxiously as he opened the brown envelope, half fearing it might contain a contradiction of the good news.

"Eh! what!" he exclaimed. "It's from Jack Burnaby himself. 'Tom found; am starting for Mombasa to-morrow; will you come?'"

"Oh, do take me, Father!" cried Lilian, clasping his arm. "I'm sure you won't go without me."

"H'm! Don't know that I'll go at all. Running your poor father off his legs again! Very short notice, too. Just like Burnaby; just as young as ever he was, spite of the K.C.B.--What are you doing, Lilian, waggling your hand about so frantically at the window?"

"Just calling the telegraph man, Father. You didn't give him a reply."

"That's true; well, we'll go, begad. Here's a form. Write it for me. 'Yes, tickets for two via Marseilles and Brindisi.' That's right. Another one to Dr. O'Brien. 'Hurray! always said so.' Now, we must go by the 6.15 up-train to-night, so get your packing done. And for pity's sake don't get excited; try to keep as cool as I am. And so that fine young fellow's found, eh? Where, and how, and when, and what's he been doing? Gad, I want to know all about it. Think we'll catch the 4.20, Lilian; the packing will do itself if only you keep cool."

Mr. Barkworth showed his wonderful coolness by setting everybody in a fluster for the rest of the day. The whole household was called upon to assist him in his preparations. He had a genius for mislaying his things, and then accused the first person he came across of deliberately putting them out of their places; and when the gardener had been called in to find his master's newest suit of pyjamas, and the cook to rout out the straps of his hold-all, everybody was quite ready to see the back of the fussy old gentleman. Lilian got him safely away in the nick of time to catch the 6.15, and after spending the night at Claridge's, they sought out Tom's uncle, and arranged to meet him at Charing Cross for the night French mail.

It was Major Burnaby no longer. His services had been recognized by promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy, an honour crowned by the conferment of a Knight Commandership of the Bath. Mr. Barkworth was vastly proud of the fame of Sir John Burnaby, K.C.B., and regarded his honours as a remarkable testimony to his own foresight and discrimination. All the way down to Dover he plied his friend with questions, comments, and suggestions, though Sir John explained more than once that he knew nothing beyond the bare fact that Tom was at last found. Ever since the news of his disappearance reached England, Mr. Barkworth had at intervals fired off cable messages at Dr. O'Brien in Kisumu, asking for information, or upbraiding him for not displaying greater activity in the search; and he was now firmly convinced that the recovery of the long-lost Tom was in great part due to his indefatigable enquiries.

On the voyage out he lost no opportunity of telling the whole story, and magnified Tom's achievements (of which, since the fight by the bridge, he, of course, knew nothing), until the young Englishman appeared a new Cincinnatus, the saviour of his country. He became more and more fidgety as he drew nearer to the journey's end.

"I never in my life so took to a young fellow, never," he would say, to excuse his excitement; "if he had been my own son I couldn't have felt it more."

When the boat steamed slowly into the harbour at Mombasa, Mr. Barkworth was the first of the passengers to cross the gangway.

"Where's Tom?" he cried, without waiting to greet Major Lister, who, like his former chief, had won a step in rank. "Why isn't he here to meet us?"

"Impossible, sir," said Lister laconically. "How d'e do, Sir John?"

"Glad to see you, Lister. You remember Miss Barkworth?" The major bowed. "We're all anxious, of course. Where is the boy? how is he?"

"Ah! you don't know then? Of course; you couldn't have got Corney's letter before you started. It was the padre who found Tom. On the day Corney sent you the cable he had got a pencilled note from the padre, brought here by train from Kisumu, where it had been carried by a native in a canoe round the Nyanza. I have it in my pocket."

He took out of his pocket-book a small, crumpled, dirty note, and handed it to Sir John, who translated aloud the almost illegible writing: "I have just found Tom Burnaby. He is badly wounded. I am taking him, as soon as he can be moved, to Bukoba."

They were all walking now towards the hotel, and a painful silence fell upon the group as they heard the brief message.

"I suppose Corney started at once?" said Sir John.

"Oh yes! He caught the first train. Your cable arrived just before he left, and he asked me to assure you he would do everything he could."

"Of course he would. And you have heard nothing since?"

"Not a word."

"Why Bukoba, do you think? Wouldn't Entebbe have been a more natural point to make for?"

"There's nothing to show where the padre wrote from, but I take it that Bukoba is the nearest point on the Nyanza. The padre knows the German commandant, and has probably arranged with him."

"Ah! it is trying, this suspense; but I suppose we shall get an explanation before long."

"Before long! I should think so," cried Mr. Barkworth. "Burnaby, I'm going across to Bukoba; start to-morrow morning. Never imagined the boy'd be wounded--badly wounded, the padre says. This is terrible, terrible!"

"I guessed you would go on," said Lister, "and wired to Port Florence, as soon as your boat was signalled, to fix a launch for you. We may find a reply at the hotel."

"Thanks, Lister," said Sir John. "Yes, I shall go on to-morrow."

It was a sad and silent party on the hotel veranda that evening. Sir John was almost angry with the doctor for not cabling the whole of the padre's message, though on reflection he saw that he had been spared three weeks of intolerable anxiety. It was a keen disappointment to them all to meet, instead of Tom himself, a messenger of bad news, and they were all disinclined to talk. Mr. Barkworth did indeed find some relief from his anxiety in opening his mind to a Monsieur Armand Desjardins whom he met in the smoking-room. He poured out a recital of Tom's heroic deeds, drawing freely upon his imagination to fill up the gaps, until he had worked the impressionable Frenchman into a fit of enthusiasm. Monsieur Desjardins was a 'functionary' of course, and a journalist to boot, and he seized on Mr. Barkworth as an abundant reservoir of 'copy'. He went down to see the party off when they left next morning, and said to Lilian, to whom he had been specially attentive:

"I burn with envy to see dis Monsieur Tom; truly he is a hero, and I go to put him in a book. Good-bye, mees! you spik French? Oui, je m'en souviens. Eh bien, mademoiselle, vos beaux yeux vont guérir bientôt le jeune malade, n'est-ce-pas? Hein?"

"What's that, what's that?" exclaimed Mr. Barkworth suspiciously.

"Nothing, Father," said Lilian with a blush. "Monsieur Desjardins is pleased to be complimentary."

"Well, it's a good thing he don't do it in English, for compliments in English just sound--piffle, humbug! Train's off; good-bye, Mossoo!"

On reaching Port Florence the travellers found that a launch was waiting for them. They embarked without delay, and reached Bukoba on the third evening after leaving Mombasa. The German commandant--no longer Captain Stumpff, who, like so many of his kind, had carried things a little too far and been recalled three months before--put his bungalow at their disposal, and told them that a runner had come in that very afternoon with the news that Father Chevasse was only a day's march distant, and was bringing the wounded Englishman in a litter. Dr. O'Brien had gone into the interior with an escort of German native soldiers as soon as he learnt where to find the padre, and all the information brought back by them was that he had found the Englishman under the missionary's care in a large native camp. Mr. Barkworth was for starting at once to meet the returning wanderer, but was persuaded to restrain his impatience and accept the German officer's hospitality.

Next day, an hour before sunset, Sir John, sitting with Mr. Barkworth and Lilian on the veranda of the bungalow, heard faintly in the distance the regular thump, thump of drums.

"At last!" he exclaimed, and, getting up, looked eagerly towards the hills. The sound became every moment more distinctly audible, forming now, as it were, a ground bass to strains of song which came fitfully on light gusts of wind, in strange harmony with the fading light, the red glory beyond the hills, and the sombre shadows of the distant trees. Sir John unstrapped his field-glass, and, looking through it, saw the head of a procession emerge from a belt of wood nearly a mile away. The trees stood out black against the crimson sky; the pale green above was deepening to a blue; and the sounds came more distinctly to the ear--a few notes ascending and descending by curious intervals, the same phrase being repeated again and again in the same low solemn chant, swelling and dying on the breeze. Mr. Barkworth had let his cigar go out, and was walking up and down the veranda like a caged lion. Lilian sat motionless in her chair, her fingers tightly intertwined, her cheeks pale. Not a word was spoken; the only sounds were the light swish of the ripples on the shore, the hum from the woods and marshes preluding the dark, and the ever-approaching song with its melancholy dirge-like accompaniment of drums. The three watchers on the veranda were tense with anxiety. Was it a funeral march? Was Tom coming back to them only for burial?

The procession drew nearer and nearer. It was possible now to distinguish the figures with the naked eye. A drummer walked at the head; behind him there were four negroes bearing a litter covered with an awning; and yes, it was the tall figure of the padre walking at one side. Behind, as far as the eye could reach, stretched a long line of black forms, marching in single file, keeping step to the drums, and singing their monotonous song, that now came low in tone but immense in volume, like a sonorous emanation from the splendid sky. Nearer and nearer; and now the figure of the doctor could be seen behind the litter, and Mbutu by his side. Nearer still; and then, at a few yards' distance from the bungalow, the drums ceased to beat, the voices fell like a breaking wave, the rearmost of the column continuing to sing for some seconds after the foremost had stopped. There was a great silence. The sun's rim had just dipped below the purple horizon. The doctor came forward, and at the same moment the principal drummer gave a signal tap, and a thousand stalwart negroes, armed with musket, spear, and pike, formed up in a half-circle about the litter. Sir John stepped down from the veranda; the litter was brought to meet him. Removing the awning, the doctor showed him a thin, pale, wasted form, with large bright eyes gazing eagerly out into the dusk, which the commandant had now illuminated with a number of flaring torches. Tom's face broke into a glad contented smile as he saw his uncle looking down upon him.

"Uncle Jack!" he whispered.

The older man murmured a word or two--no one heard them--and laid his hand gently upon his nephew's. Then, too deeply moved for speech, he turned and walked beside the litter as it was borne towards the bungalow.

Mr. Barkworth had been blowing his nose violently, and more than once he lifted his spectacles and rubbed them with quite unnecessary vigour. As the litter approached he took Lilian by the hand.

"Come inside, my dear," he said hurriedly. "Not good for him to see too many at once, you know. Uncle enough for to-night. He looks very ill. Glad we have him, though. Thank God, thank God!"

When the doctor had settled the invalid comfortably for the night, Mr. Barkworth waylaid him.

"Will he get over it?" he asked anxiously.

"Indeed and he will. He has had a narrow shave, but I think he will do. The constitution of a horse, sorr--thorough-bred, nothing spavined, no broken wind, sound everywhere."

"Where was he? What has he been doing all these months?"

"Faith, I have not got to the bottom of it yet; but so far as I can make out he has been administering a corner of the Congo Free State, raising a regular army, smashing the slave-trade, and taching the negroes something of the blessings of civilization. I mean it, bedad; the padre tould me all he knew, but sure there's a deal more to be tould yet.--Have ye got a cigar, Mr. Barkworth? I forgot my case, and have been wearying for one for three weeks. Hark'e! Those blacks outside are beginning a hullabaloo. I must put a stop to that. Come and see what they're after."

The host of natives who had solemnly escorted Kuboko to the shore of the Great Lake had begun to build fires in the neighbourhood of the bungalow in preparation for camping. The German commandant made a wry face when he saw their intention, and had already sent some of his men to order them to a more convenient distance. The awed silence with which they had looked on at the greeting between Kuboko and his friends had given place to chattering and laughing and singing, and the doctor took pains to impress upon them that the noise would disturb Kuboko's rest. His expostulation was effectual; they ate their evening meal in comparative silence.

It was long past midnight before any of the Europeans retired to rest. Seated in the largest room of the German commandant's bungalow, Sir John Burnaby and his party listened while the padre told of his discovery of Tom. Never before had Mr. Barkworth so keenly felt the drawbacks he suffered through want of familiarity with French. He would not allow the padre's story to be interrupted by any attempt at interpretation, but listened with a painful effort to follow it, and got Lilian, tired as she was, to give it privately in outline afterwards. But he there and then vowed that one of his first duties on reaching home would be to agitate for the compulsory teaching of conversational French, and decided to found a prize at his old school for proficiency in the subject.

Father Chevasse told how, as he was returning by easy stages from a visit to a mission-station at the upper end of Lake Tanganyika, he had heard vague rumours of battles fought far to the north between the Arabs and a confederation of negroes under the leadership of a white man. As he proceeded, the stories became more and more circumstantial and the details more and more extraordinary. He learnt that the intrepid commander was quite young, a man of marvellous powers, able to turn lakes into engines of destruction, and to bring fire out of the heavens. Such stories, even after he had made all allowances for the natives' exuberant imagination, awakened his curiosity; and suddenly it occurred to him that, improbable as it seemed, the white man might be no other than the long-lost Tom. "Nothing British surprises me," he interpolated with a smile. He hastened his march, made diligent enquiry at every village through which he passed, and by and by encountered people who had actually formed part of the confederacy and fought under the stranger's command. The information given by them did but strengthen his growing conviction, and when he at last, under the guidance of a Muhima, reached Mwonga's village, he was rejoiced to find that his surmise was correct. Almost the first person he saw on entering the stockade was Mbutu, who ran up to him, threw himself at his feet, and broke out into ejaculations of delight mingled with entreaty. He was led to a hut in the centre of the village, and there saw Tom, lying on a couch covered with clean linen--Tom indeed, but the pale shadow of his former self. Bit by bit the padre learnt from one and another the story of his deeds, from his capture by the Arabs to the final destruction of their island fortress. After that noteworthy event every vestige of the stronghold had been burnt or razed to the ground. A search was made for the treasure which rumour attributed to the Arabs, and beneath the flooring of Rumaliza's house, in cellars extending for many yards under the surface of the soil, had been discovered an immense hoard, the accumulation of many years--hundreds of ivory tusks worth untold gold. The few Arabs who had survived the fight had been sent eastwards under escort, and their Manyema dependants disbanded. Many of these threw in their lot with the conquerors. Then the Bahima force had started on its return journey, bringing the captured treasure in triumph to the village.

Tom's wound had become more and more painful, and though he tried at first to walk with his men, he found himself obliged, after one day, to give up the attempt, and was carried for the rest of the way in a litter. On the journey he had talked long and earnestly with the katikiro and other officials, suggesting and advising them as to their movements and the future government of the village in case he died. They had only reached the village two days before the missionary's arrival, and, at Mbutu's entreaty, the katikiro was arranging to despatch messengers to the shore of the Victoria Nyanza with a request for help. The padre at once sent off one of his own attendants under a strong escort to Bukoba, the nearest European station, and the German commandant had forwarded the message immediately to Kisumu.

"My own knowledge and skill in surgery is but slight," added the missionary, "but I did what I could until our friend Dr. O'Brien arrived."

"He extracted the bullet," said the doctor; "capitally too. It was an ugly wound."

"And Tom bore the pain with marvellous fortitude. Happily, he sank into unconsciousness before I had completed my task, and never so much as murmured when he awoke to the full sense of his agony and helplessness. I made arrangements at once to convey him here, and the villagers, whose devotion to him transcends anything I have ever before seen in the natives, of their own accord organized the procession which you have just witnessed. We were already half-way here when Dr. O'Brien reached us, and his skill completed what my clumsier hands had begun. I have given you only a sketch of what this young hero has been able, under God's mercy, to accomplish; indeed, I am not able to fill in all the details, for Tom himself has been too ill to talk, and is, besides, very reticent about his own actions. One fact stands out pre-eminent, and no distrust of native stories can explain it away. He has stamped out a pestilent gang of slave-raiders, and may with a whole heart sing 'Magnificat!' And though we dare not be so sanguine as to expect that the lessons of self-sacrifice, courage, justice, brotherly kindness, he has by his example taught the natives, will never be effaced from their minds, yet they must bear fruit, and certainly he has prepared the way for me and my brethren, Catholic or Protestant. You have a nephew to be proud of, Sir John."

Next morning, the commandant, who had considerately effaced himself on the previous night, resumed his autocratic air, and told the assembled natives bluntly that he would be delighted to see the last of them. In their wholesome dread of the Wa-daki, they took the very broad hint and prepared to return to their remote wilds.

But before they departed they wished to take a formal farewell of the great muzungu who had taught them so much and saved them from their hereditary foe. Msala was deputed to seek an interview with Sir John, and he asked, with his usual eloquence, that Kuboko might be brought out to his sorrowing people, that they might look upon his face once more. Sir John consulted the doctor, who pursed up his lips and looked doubtful, but confessed that Tom himself had asked that the people should not be allowed to go until he had seen them and bidden them good-bye. Accordingly, about eight o'clock in the morning, Tom was carried out in his litter and placed on the veranda, where he lay in the shade during the scene of farewell.

It was in truth a remarkable scene. Arranged in three concentric semicircles stood the throng of a thousand negroes, including representatives of almost every race known to the eastern half of Central Africa. A few steps in advance of the rest stood Mwonga, the young Bahima chief, with the katikiro and a few other of his principal officers. Their black faces were all aglow, their bright eyes fixed on the tall figure of Sir John Burnaby, who stood just within the veranda of the bungalow. By his side lay Tom--the black man's loved Kuboko--thin as a lath, pale and haggard, the head of his couch raised so that he might see the crowd of natives. On one side, a little in advance, for he had offered to interpret the katikiro's speech, stood the tall dignified White Father, his lips parted in a slight smile, his eyes beaming a compassionate kindliness. With him stood the little doctor, a striking contrast with his short, neat, wiry frame, his twinkling gray eyes, his stubby beard. And on the other side was the stout figure of Mr. Barkworth, his rubicund side-whiskered face cheerful and benevolent as ever; and the fair girl at his elbow, white and radiant, looking alternately at the negroes and at Tom.

The signal being given, the katikiro stepped forward and stood before Sir John. He had never before had the opportunity of addressing a group of white men, and his gait showed that he fully realized the importance of the occasion. Sticking his spear in the ground, so as to have the use of both arms for gesture, he began his oration. The exordium was a long account of himself, his family, his achievements in hunting and war, his importance as katikiro first to Barega and then to Barega's successor, Mwonga. He proceeded to recount with minute circumstantiality how he found Kuboko in the forest, carried him to the village, and from that time on had been his most devoted friend and disciple. He passed on to a chronological narrative of the subsequent events in the village: the contest with Mabruki, the making of big medicine, the protracted siege, the wonderful machines invented by Kuboko for the discomfiture of the enemy, and, finally, the formation of the great confederacy which, by obedience to Kuboko, had succeeded in defeating time after time the enemy who had for many years crushed native Africa beneath his iron heel. All this was narrated with many repetitions, many picturesque adornments, much extravagance of language and gesture, and the padre's translation in French almost did justice to the Muhima's fervour.

But Msala's eloquence was to soar a still higher pitch. So far he had dealt with facts, with just enough embroidery to make the presentment of them artistic. He went on to express the opinions and emotions of his community.

"Never was such a white man seen," he said. "We have had nothing to do with white men. We have heard about them,--about the Wa-daki, who live day and night with kiboko; about the white men of the Lualaba, who buy rubber and ivory at their own prices, or for nothing at all. But never such a white man as this. Surely he must be a mighty chief in his own land. Never did he raise his hand to strike us; Kuboko was his name, but kiboko had he none" (he evidently deeply relished the jingle). "When Mabruki did him wrong, and Barega would have cut off the villain's head, Kuboko said: 'Nay, let him pay back the bulls.' Did he order a thing to be done? He showed how to do it. Was there little food? Kuboko had no more than the rest. He did justice and showed mercy; he even sported with the little children, teaching them how to smite balls with a stick, and giving them turns equally, doing favour to none above the others. And what was all this to gain? The Wa-daki, as men tell us, give one and take two; but Kuboko took nothing. He might have been chief, but would not. 'Nay,' he said, 'I will stay with you until the Arabs are destroyed, and then I go to my own people, and Mwonga shall be chief.' In the caverns of Rumaliza lay thousands of tusks, long as a man, the spoils of our hunting and the hunting of our fathers. All this belonged by right to the victor; but did he say: 'It is mine, I will take all of it'? Nay, he said: 'My brothers, it is yours; divide it among yourselves.' We threw ourselves at his feet, and implored him to take this great treasure, but he shook his head, and even waxed angry, and bade us hold our peace. Only at the last, when Mwonga himself offered the two tusks that have come down from chief to chief, and begged Kuboko, if he loved him, to take them for his own,--only then did he yield and say: 'I will take them as a gift from your people, and keep them ever to remind me of you.' That is Kuboko.

"And now he leaves us. Our women and children are wailing, and our hearts are heavy and sad. Who will lead us now in war? Who will guide us in peace? True, we have Kuboko's words, and treasure them in our hearts; but even as water dries up in the sun, even as smoke rises into the sky and is seen no more, so Kuboko's words, as the days pass, will fade from our memories. Yet how could we keep him? We are black; he is white. He comes from the land of the Great White King, who will assuredly make him his katikiro when he hears what he has done, even as I, Msala, am Mwonga's katikiro. But though he be far away, in the land of big medicine, our thoughts will turn to him. He will be to us as a Good Spirit, to hearten us against Magaso, and Irungo, and all the other evil spirits who blight our crops and steal our cattle. He will be even as the Buchwezi, the spirits of our ancestors, whom we do not see, but who nevertheless see us and watch our doings and maybe help us in our hour of need. We, Bahima and Bairo, Ruanda and Banyoro, bid Kuboko farewell. I, Msala, say it."

It is impossible to do justice in sober English to the impassioned eloquence of the katikiro. As he paused at the end of every sentence to allow the missionary to interpret, loud grunts and ejaculations of approval burst from the throats of the throng behind him. When the speech was ended, one great voluminous shout rent the air, and every man held out his spear in front of him with the precision of an automaton. The drums gave forth three solemn rolls, and then Mwonga and the kasegara advanced to the veranda, and twenty bearers laid two great tusks beside Kuboko's litter.

"Thank you, thank you!" said Tom. "Uncle, will you speak to them for me?"

Sir John stepped forward and, gripping his coat-collar, began:

"My friends, I am touched by the eloquent words of your excellent katikiro. For many months I had mourned my nephew as dead, and now my joy at seeing him again is all the greater because I know that during his long absence he has been doing good things. I thank you, my friends, for bringing him back to me. I thank you, too, for the respect and affection you have shown for him. The story your katikiro has told is a wonderful one. I cannot profess yet to understand it; but I do understand that by your willing obedience, loyalty, and devotion to my nephew you have been able to rid yourselves, once for all as I hope and believe, of the enemy who has oppressed you for so many years. Men"--here Sir John's right hand left his coat-collar and was stretched out towards his attentive audience--"men, now that you are free, remember the price of your freedom. My nephew owes his life to your late brave chief, whose own life he had saved; since then he has spent himself in your service. Nothing good was ever done except at some cost. You know what Kuboko did for you. The katikiro has spoken of it. Now in his name I beg you to turn his self-sacrifice to lasting account. Obey and support your young chief. You have learnt what union means. Don't quarrel among yourselves and eat your hearts out in miserable little jealousies. Other white men will come to your village. The officers of the Congo State will visit you. Render them willing obedience, and though at times they may be severe, though among white men there are bad as well as good, remember that the great white nations mean nothing but good to their black brethren. My nephew, you tell me, has sought nothing for himself. He takes with him nothing but your good-will and the memory of your common sufferings and common triumphs. It is what I should have expected of him, and I am proud of it. Now we are going home, and very likely we shall never see you again. But Kuboko will not forget you; nor shall I forget this great throng, come so many miles to do him honour. Men, for him and for myself, I say good-bye, and good luck to you!"

When the shouts with which the natives received Sir John's brief speech had subsided, Tom asked that the principal men might be allowed to come to his litter and bid him a more personal farewell. Accordingly, Mwonga, with Msala, Mwonda, the kasegara, and eight others marched up in single file. They passed by the left side of the litter, and as Tom gave them his limp hand in turn, each stooped down, pressed it lightly to his brow, and descended in solemn silence to his place in front of the attentive crowd. The simple scene was too much for Mr. Barkworth's feelings; his handkerchief was diligently employed, and he was unfeignedly glad when, the ceremony being now at an end, the procession re-formed in preparation for starting on the long homeward march. The drums gave out their hollow notes, the multitude swayed as they marked time, and striking up an improvised song in which Kuboko's uncle and the white lady had the largest mention next to Kuboko himself, they filed off westward towards the forest.

Dr. O'Brien insisted on Tom's having a clear day's rest before his journey was resumed. On the second morning, therefore, the party of seven embarked on the launch, and were conveyed rapidly across the Nyanza to Port Florence. Tom thought of the many things that had happened since he last saw the lake, and laughed with something of his old spirit when the padre reminded him of the fight with the hippopotamus. On reaching the eastern shore they took up their quarters in Sir John's old bungalow, and there Mr. Barkworth pestered Mbutu constantly to tell him again and again of the momentous doings in Mwonga's village.

One day, happening to be at Port Florence, he went down to the quay among other curious spectators to watch the arrival of a German steamer from down the lake. As the passengers came off, Mr. Barkworth was puzzled by one face among them, which he seemed to recognize without being able to remember whose it was or where he had seen it. The passenger was a thick-set, bearded man, wearing gold spectacles, limping badly, and carrying a big leather valise in his left hand. As he stepped off the gangway he stumbled, and would have fallen but for the purser's sustaining arm. He poured out a stream of very warm German, and as he limped away the purser turned to a man standing near and made some remark about the testy passenger. Mr. Barkworth caught the name.

"Swob! Swob!" he muttered. "Thought I knew him. It's the German trader I saw last year. And a prisoner in the Arab fort! Hi, Mr. Swob!"

He toddled after the German, who turned as he heard his name thus travestied.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Swob," said Mr. Barkworth, coming up with him. "Extremely sorry to hear of your sad experiences. It must have been a terrible time, sir. And but for that fine young fellow--

"Ach ja!" interrupted Herr Schwab; "I know all zat. I vant to forget it, nozink else."

"Naturally, my dear sir. I do hope that you will not suffer permanently, and that--"

"Not per-ma-nent-ly! Look at me, look at me, I say. I hafe vun leg qvite caput, goot for nozink. I hafe marks on my body zat vill remain till my death-day. Not suffer! Vy, I suffer vizout end: I suffer in my person, I suffer in my pockett, I suffer in my pride. I suffer allofer. And vy? I did nozink. I go to sell zinks--nozink more--and zey keep me, vill not let me go. Naturally, I protest. I say I appeal to Berlin, and zen zey chain me opp--yes, to a post--me, a Gairman sobjeck--and so am I chained for veeks and veeks. Himmel, but I grow meagre--vat you call skinny. I lose almost all ze flesh from my bones. Zen come Mr. Burnaby. By night zere is vun colossal combat. In ze yard of ze chief's house, zink I, I must be secure. But not so. Ofer ze vall come tousand fire-balls. I call: 'Hafe care, mind me, I am Schwab.' But zere hears none. A fire-ball fall upon my toe, and I am in com-bus-tion. Zen, my goodness! from ze chief's house run hundert shrieking defils. Portuguese, De Castro, so vas his name, struck me vid his sword as he pass me by. Zerefore am I lame to-day. Never shall I forget zat most fear-ful night. Efen still I shiver before ze zought. I vas let free; Mr. Burnaby, I must say, vat you call did me vell; but I hafe some grudge against him. Sir, zere vas hundert tousand pound sterling ifory in ze vaults below zat house: hundert tousand, sure as a gun. Now I did expect Mr. Burnaby to gife me at least--at least, vun tousand pound vorth for damages. I lose qvite so much in commission, to say nozink about ze vear and tear of my intellecks. No more is my brain as it vas. But Mr. Burnaby shut me opp, sir, shut me opp. He say somezink about ze ifory belong on account of law to ze Congo State and on account of right to ze blacks. Zat is not business, it is vat you call rot. He vill not gife me vun single tusk, and ven I say I vill write to ze Kaiser he say: 'Hang ze Kaiser!' Vat is zat for a kind of business, sir!"

The German's dudgeon was too much for Mr. Barkworth's gravity, and he had recourse to the never-failing safety-valve for his feelings--his handkerchief. When he had blown off his amusement, he asked:

"And what have you been doing since you left the fort?"

"I vent to all ze places vere I had left bags. Now I return to my home. Of Africa I hafe now enough. I travel to Düsseldorf, and zere, if ze Kaiser vill not gife me a pension, and if nozink more remains, I establish myself as barber, for I am at least--Mr. Burnaby vill say it,--at least vell capable to cut his hair!"

His tone was indescribably bitter. He continued:

"But first of all I go to Kisumu to despatch vun cable to ze Kaiser. I tell him he shall take ze Congo State. Ze Belgians, vat are zey? No good. Ze Congo State shall be Gairman, sir."

"Well! well!" said Mr. Barkworth, humouring him; "let's hope it's not so bad as that. In the meantime, you'll come and see Mr. Burnaby to say good-bye?"

"I zink not, sir. I nefer forgif him; he owe me tousand pound. Business are business. Long ago I say: 'Step nefer in betveen ze vite man and ze black.' He step in,--and I step out, sir."

And with that he walked away.

Three days after this, the travellers left for Mombasa. Father Chevasse saw them off at the railway-station.

"But we shall see you again?" said Lilian warmly, as they shook hands. "You will come and see us in England some day, won't you?"

The padre smiled a strange, almost wistful smile.

"I may not," he said quietly. "We White Fathers, when we put our hands to the plough, never turn back. I shall never even see my beloved Normandy again. I shall live and die in Africa.--God bless you!" he said to Tom; "I shall not forget you, though I may never see you again."

All Mombasa was on tiptoe with excitement when it was flashed along the line that the wanderer was returning. Everybody knew that he had saved the expedition, but what had happened since then was a mystery, and a fruitful subject for speculation among the European colony. Dr. O'Brien grumbled a little when he saw the crowd awaiting the train at the terminus.

"They might have had the common sense, not to say common decency, to keep out of the way just now. Making a peep-show of us, indeed!"

But he managed to get the invalid into the hotel without mishap, and afterwards referred everybody who applied to him for information to Mr. Barkworth. "He's brimmin' with it," he said. Mr. Barkworth, indeed, was pounced on at once by an inquisitive stranger, who included among his numerous avocations that of occasional correspondent to the Times, and who cabled a column of extremely good 'copy' as soon as he had sufficiently pumped the garrulous old gentleman. This fact, no doubt, explained the number of telegrams which came during the next few days addressed to Tom--telegrams of congratulation from strangers, requests from publishers for the offer of his forthcoming volume, an invitation from a New York agency to undertake a lecture tour in the States. And yet not one-tenth of his story had been told. Mbutu had not vocabulary enough to give a consecutive narrative; it was only when Tom himself, after being mercifully spared excitement for a fortnight, was at last pronounced well enough to talk, that his friends wormed out of him bit by bit the whole story of his adventures. He dwelt lightly upon his own achievements, and Mr. Barkworth, when he retailed the narrative afterwards to all and sundry, did not fail to eulogize the "astonishing modesty of this fine young fellow; a true Englishman, you know." All which was duly doled out to the British public by the indefatigable newspaper-man.

One evening, when they had been in Mombasa for about six weeks, Sir John Burnaby was sitting with Mr. Barkworth, Major Lister, and the doctor in the smoking-room of the hotel. They were the only occupants of the room. The doctor had just announced that Tom would be well enough to leave for home by the boat sailing in three days, and the pleasure of all the gentlemen had been expressed in Mr. Barkworth's exclamation: "That's capital!" For a time they sat in silence, puffing at their cigars, each thinking over the events of the past twelvemonth in his own way. Then Major Lister, who was not usually the first to speak, said suddenly:

"Tom going back to Glasgow, sir?"

"That's a question that's been puzzling me," returned Sir John. "On the one hand, he has gone a certain way in his profession and might do well in it; on the other--"

"On the other, Burnaby," interrupted Mr. Barkworth, "he's not going back if I know it. Why, the boy's a born soldier and administrator, h'm; I knew it!"

"To tell the truth," said Sir John, "I've been wondering whether, on the strength of his doings out here, we couldn't get him a crib in the Diplomatic Service, or, if he wants to stay in Africa, in the service of one of the companies or protectorates. He asked me the other day if the Congo Free State people would give him something to do."

"That's out of the question," said Mr. Barkworth decisively. "I've read a lot of things I don't like about these Belgians, and if there is anything fishy in their methods of administration, the youngster would only eat his heart out. No; he's an Englishman; let him stick to the old country and the old flag, h'm!"

"We'll leave it till we get home," suggested Sir John. "I've a little more influence than I had a year ago, and I dare say we shall be able to get the boy something to suit him. Depend upon it I'll do my best; I don't forget that but for him I might be a bleached skeleton to-day."

"And that boy Booty--what about him, now?" asked Mr. Barkworth. "He's a fine fellow, you know. Too bad to leave him among these heathens to bow down to wood and stone, h'm! What can we do for him?"

"Put him in the K.A.R.," suggested Major Lister.

"I don't think he'd get on with them," said Sir John. "These Bahima are uncommonly proud."

"Have the boy in and let him speak for himself," said the doctor. "We cannot dispose of a human creature as if he were a bag of bones."

"Very well; ring for him."

In a minute or two Mbutu came in, dressed in loose garments of spotless linen. He looked rather shyly at the group of gentlemen, and yet stood proudly, and with an air of dignity.

"Mbutu," said Sir John, "we are all going back to England on Thursday, and your master will be with us. We should like to do something for you. You have been a faithful servant. Your master tells me that you have been his right hand--tending him in sickness, and never tired of helping him in health. You more than once saved his life. What would you like us to do for you?"

Mbutu was silent for some moments. Then he said, stumblingly:

"Sah my fader and mudder. No want leabe sah. No leabe him nebber, not till long night come. Big water? No like big water. Sah him village ober big water? Mbutu go; all same for one."

"I'm sure my nephew will be sorry to part with you," said Sir John kindly, "but I am afraid you cannot go with him. You see, he will not want your help in his own land. There are no forests to go through; no black men to need interpreters. I am afraid our cold bleak winters would not suit you, my boy."

"Tell you what," put in Mr. Barkworth, "let him try. Booty, you can come with me, and you'll often see your young master, let's hope. I'll take you as odd man, you know; clean the boots, run errands, rub down the pony, all that sort of thing, you know. Good suit of clothes; buttons, if you like, for best; a kind mistress and a comfortable home."

Mbutu drew himself up.

"Me Muhima," he said, addressing Sir John. "Muhima no slave. Clean boots for sah? Oh yes! sah fader and mudder. No for nudder master. Oh no! not for red-faced pussin."

"There's no gratitude--" Mr. Barkworth was beginning from sheer force of habit; but the boy went on:

"Found brudder, sah; brudder chief. Mbutu not go ober big water; berrah well. Go to brudder; be him katikiro, sah. Fink of master always, eber and eber, sah."

"I think you are wise," said Sir John. "You can talk it over with your master to-morrow."

"And just remember," put in the doctor, "that I will be in Kisumu for two years or more, and if ever you want any help, ask for Dr. O'Brien."

Tom had a long talk with Mbutu next day, and loth though he was to part with him, could not but approve his plan of returning to his brother's village. He took care that he should not go empty-handed; indeed, in point of worldly wealth the new katikiro was probably a greater man than his brother the chief. But it was only after much persuasion that he could be induced to accept anything whatever. As the doctor had decided to return to Kisumu at once, now that Tom's convalescence was assured, Mbutu agreed to go back with him without waiting to see his master off. The boy burst into tears for the first time in Tom's experience when the moment of parting came.

"Good-bye!" said Tom, putting his hand on the boy's head as he knelt by the couch. "You have been loyal and true to me, and I know that you will be a true katikiro to your brother. I should like to hear about you whenever you can get to Kisumu to send me a message. And see, I'll give you my watch. You don't need it to tell the time; but it will remind you of this wonderful year we have spent together. Perhaps I shall see you again some day. Good-bye, good-bye!"

Two days later Tom was carried on board the homeward-bound steamer amid the sympathetic cheers of a great crowd of Europeans and natives. Little had been seen of him, but from the government officials to the meanest coolie everybody knew all about him, and was ready to laud him to the skies.

As the gangway was about to be removed, a round little figure was seen rushing wildly up the quay, holding a blue envelope in his right hand, and shouting to the seamen.

"Just vun leetle moment!" cried Monsieur Armand Desjardins, panting as he tumbled on board. He made his way to the long chair on which Tom was lying, and handed him the envelope. "Monsieur Burnaby, vun leetle gift, vun souvenir, for to make you understan' my vair high consideration and my immense entusiasm. Adieu, my dear Monsieur Burnaby; dat you may arrive sound and safe at de end of de road, and vun fine day return for to see us now so desolate, dat is de prayer of your vair devoted Armand Desjardins. Adieu, mademoiselle, j'ai bien l'honneur de vous saluer; messieurs ... mademoiselle...."

And with his hand on his heart the vivacious little Frenchman made his best bow, and backed down the gangway.

The bell sounded, the screw revolved, and in a few minutes the vessel was steaming out of the harbour. Tom's friends stood at the rail, gazing at the receding shore and the waving hats and handkerchiefs until they had well-nigh faded from sight. Then they placed their deck-chairs in a semicircle around Tom, and sighed a sigh of great contentment.

"Well, we're off at last," said Mr. Barkworth, lighting a cigar and looking round over his spectacles on the group, with even more than his usual benevolence. "England, home, and beauty, and all that sort of thing, you know. No place like home. Well, what did mossoo give you, Tom? What I never can make out is, why a Frenchman can't do things in the same way as rational people. Why make a ballroom bow on the deck of a steamer, eh? Tell me that, now. What are you smiling at, Tom? Some bit of buffoonery, I'll warrant, h'm!"

"Monsieur Desjardins has dropped into verse," replied Tom, laughing outright. "A rhymed valedictory."

"Read it," said Sir John.

"Your accent is better than mine," said Tom, passing the paper to Lilian, his eyes twinkling. In her perfect accent, and with due attention to the mute e's, she began to read:

"Ô mon héros si jeune! ô guerrier intrépide!

L'Afrique à ton départ a le coeur triste et vide.

Lea bords du vaste lac résonnent de sanglots,

Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des flots."

Only Sir John and his nephew noticed that at this point the reader flushed a little, and crumpled the paper slightly in her hand. There was a momentary pause, as though everybody expected more to come, but Lilian was silent, and her father exclaimed:

"H'm! Translate, Lilian; why couldn't the mossoo say what he had to say in English?"

Sir John took the verses from her, and after an amused glance at them put them in his pocket.

"They're decent enough Alexandrines, Barkworth," he said with a chuckle. "Lilian's thinking of Tom's blushes, I suspect."

"Well then, translate, somebody. What's the fellow say?"

"Translate 'em in rhyme, a line each, sort of game," suggested Major Lister.

"A good idea!" exclaimed Sir John. "Place aux dames; you begin, Lilian; and it must be heroic measure, of course, to match the theme."

"How will this do?" asked Lilian after a moment or two.

"'O youthful hero, warrior brave and bold!'"

"Capital! and the right heroic strain. I go on:

'Deserted Afric's heart is sad and cold'.

Now, Lister, it's your turn."

Major Lister puffed solemnly at his pipe for at least a minute before he said slowly, pausing after every word:

"'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs'."

"As literal as a Kelly's crib, 'pon my word!" cried Sir John, laughing; "but I can't say much for your sense of rhythm. Now Barkworth, you're in for the last line. Come along, no shirking:

'Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots'."

"What's it mean in plain English? I never made poetry in my life; used to get swished horribly for my verses at school; never could see any good in 'em."

"Gammon! It means: 'And your name, O Thomas, mingles with the noise of the waves'."

"There now, didn't I tell you so! Gammon indeed! Utter tomfoolery! How can his name do any such thing! Pure bosh; I knew it!"

"Play the game and don't argue. You've only to cap Lister's brilliant line, 'The-shores-of-the-vast-lake-re-sound-with-sobs--' syllable by syllable. Come along."

"I can't rhyme with 'sobs'. The only rhyme I know is 'lobs'; used to bowl 'em at Winchester forty odd years ago; 'sobs', 'lobs'--can't bring it in anyhow.

'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"

He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.

"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"

put in Tom quietly, and Mr. Barkworth's protest that he didn't call that translating was drowned in laughter.

It was some weeks later. The scene was the breakfast-room at The Orchard, Winterslow. Lilian was already at the head of the table by the steaming urn, Tom was cutting a rose in the garden, and Sir John standing with his hands in his pockets at the open French window. He had come down overnight to spend a week with his old friend, whose guest Tom had been ever since his arrival in England.

"Kept you waiting, eh?" said Mr. Barkworth, coming in briskly, his rubicund face aglow. "Glorious morning. Letters not arrived yet? Ah! here they are. One for Tom; foreign post-mark. Hi!" he shouted. "Come along; letter for you. Bacon's getting cold."

Tom entered, cut the big square envelope, read the contents, and passed it to his uncle.

"That's the third," he said with a smile. He was quite the old Tom once more, bright-eyed, fresh-coloured, supple as ever; a little older in looks, to be sure, with an air of manliness and grit that rejoiced Sir John's heart.

"Another offer? Come, that's capital. Who is it this time, Burnaby?"

"The King of the Belgians, by George! His secretary offers Tom a commission in the Free State forces, with a very prettily-turned compliment."

"How proud you'll be, Mr. Burnaby!" said Lilian.

"Proud! Not he!" retorted her father. "He won't accept that, or I'm a Dutchman."

"It's a little embarrassing, though," said Tom. "People are very kind. A crib in Nigeria a week ago, then one in Rhodesia, and now one in the Congo Free State!"

"Don't be in a hurry, Tom," said his uncle. "I had a long talk with Underwood of the Foreign Office yesterday. There's some idea of--but I won't give it away. Only I'll say this: that I don't think it'll be either Rhodesia or Nigeria, much less the Congo."

"I'm in no hurry, Uncle; it's very comfortable here, and a few months' rest will do me all the good in the world."

"Really!" returned Sir John, with a significant glance at Lilian. "By the way, I suppose you haven't seen Desjardins' latest article in the Paris Figaro? I have it in my pocket. He's running you for all you're worth--and more--as a world-hero, Tom. Here it is."

He handed a newspaper cutting to Tom. As he replaced a pile of papers in his pocket, a folded sheet fell to the floor. He picked it up, casually opened it, scanned it, and smiled.

"Now I think of it, Barkworth," he said, "we never showed you on the boat the second stanza of the little Frenchman's effusion, did we?"

"Oh, you really mustn't!" cried Lilian, starting up and flushing.

"What! what!" said her father. "Another verse of that rubbish! Let me see it."

Sir John handed him the paper; he put on his spectacles, and Lilian, throwing a reproachful look at Sir John, fled to the garden, while Tom tilted back his chair and laughed a little awkwardly. Mr. Barkworth pursed up his mouth and frowned.

"Why, hang it!" he cried, "here's my daughter's name! What does the wretched little man mean by writing my daughter's name! What's the meaning of it, Burnaby? I can't read the stuff."

"I'll read it to you:

'Tu vas, comblê de gloire, illustrer ta patrie:

Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l'envie.

Quel ange te conduit par delà l'ocean?--

La mer répond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"'.

Perhaps Tom will oblige by translating."

"Not I, sir; I think you'll do it best. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and----"

"Yes, go and find her, certainly, my boy."

"Well now, Burnaby, just translate, please. There appears to be some mystery here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it, h'm!"

"You must make allowances for a Frenchman's sentiment, you know, Barkworth. What he says is something to this effect: 'Covered with glory, you're going to shed lustre on your country, and there you'll break all the girls' hearts and make all the boys jealous. What angel is wafting you over the ocean?'--A little high-falutin, you see. It ends--'And the sea whispers the name----'"

"Confound his impudence!" broke in Mr. Barkworth. "What right----what are you laughing at, Burnaby? Why--God bless me, you don't mean there's anything in it? Eh? What? 'Gad, I'm delighted, delighted, immensely pleased, old man!--Look at them in the garden, Jack; aren't they a fine couple, now!"

"They're rather young yet, Barkworth, eh?"

"Young! Of course they're young. Makes me young again myself to see them there, God bless them! Call 'em in; I must shake hands with Tom, the young dog; I know him!"

"I'd let 'em alone if I were you, Barkworth. Come round to the stables, and I'll tell you what Underwood said to me."

It is early morning in Zanzibar. The Arab quarter is scarcely astir; there are few passengers in its narrow tortuous lanes, with their square houses, each standing aloof, dark, repellent, prison-like for all its whitewash. But in the market-place the slant rays of the sun light up a busy scene. In and out among the booths of the merchants and the unsheltered heaps in which the lesser traders expose their wares, moves a jostling crowd--negroes of Zanzibar; visitors from the coast tribes; Somalis from the north; Banyamwesi, even Baganda and Banyoro, from the far interior--chattering, chaffering, haggling in a hundred variants of the Swahili tongue. Now and again the half-naked crowd parts to make way for a grave stately Arab in spotless white, with voluminous turban, or for some Muscat donkey whose well-laden panniers usurp the narrow space.

Suddenly above the hum of the market rises a strident voice. The wayfarers turn, and see a gaunt, bent, hollow-eyed figure in mendicant rags; standing on a carpet at the entrance of an alley, he has begun to harangue with the fervour of madness all who choose to hear.

"Hearken, ye faithful, sons of the Prophet, hearken while I tell of the shame that has befallen Islam! Verily, the day of our calamity has come upon us! Woe unto us! woe unto us! The hand of our foes is heavy upon us; they lie in wait for us, even as a lion for harts in the desert. Wallahi! the land was ours, from the sun's rising unto its setting, from the marge of the sea unto the uttermost verge of the Forest. Where now are all they that went forth, and in the name of Allah got them riches and slaves? Where are the leaders of old--Hamed ben Juna the mighty, Sefu his son strong in battle, yea, and the great Rumaliza? All, all are gone! I alone am left, even I, the least of their servants. The Ferangi--defiled be their graves!--shall they afflict us for ever? Are we dogs, that here, even here in our birthplace, the land of our fathers, we slink from the foot of the infidel? Awake, awake, O ye slothful! Haste ye! haste ye! Smite the Ferangi and spare not! Grind them into the dust; yea, crush them, destroy them utterly. Do ye linger or doubt? Behold, I will lead you! Lo, my sword!--is it not red with infidel blood? Let us sweep like the whirlwind upon them; like the lightnings of Allah will we rend and consume them. They that pollute our land shall be stricken, and none shall be left, no, not one alive for the wailing. By the beard of the Prophet I swear it!"

"Essalam alekam!" says a Somali in respectful greeting to a venerable seller of sweetmeats. "Who is he, O Giver of Delight?"

"Knowest thou not, O Lion of the Desert? He is a mad nebi from the Great Forest afar."

"Mashallah! And his name, O Kneader of Joy?"

"Men call him Mustapha."

* * * * * * * *

HERBERT STRANG

Complete List of Stories

ADVENTURES OF DICK TREVANION, THE
ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER, THE
A GENTLEMAN AT ARMS
A HERO OF LIÉGE
AIR PATROL, THE
AIR SCOUT, THE
BARCLAY OF THE GUIDES
BLUE RAIDER, THE
BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
BRIGHT IDEAS
BROWN OF MOUKDEN
BURTON OF THE FLYING CORPS
CARRY ON
CRUISE OF THE GYRO-CAR, THE
FIGHTING WITH FRENCH
FLYING BOAT, THE
FRANK FORESTER
HUMPHREY BOLD
JACK HARDY
KING OF THE AIR
KOBO
LONG TRAIL, THE
LORD OF THE SEAS
MOTOR SCOUT, THE
NO MAN'S ISLAND
OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE
ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES
PALM TREE ISLAND
ROB THE RANGER
ROUND THE WORLD IN SEVEN DAYS
SAMBA
SETTLERS AND SCOUTS
SULTAN JIM
SWIFT AND SURE
THROUGH THE ENEMY'S LINES
TOM BURNABY
TOM WILLOUGHBY'S SCOUTS
WITH DRAKE ON THE SPANISH MAIN
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME