"What?" asked Delange. "Are you not coming over to us?"
"Coming to you? Would I not have been with you already if I could have managed it? Turn your head, and look at that band of women who are watching our slightest movement. They are not more than a hundred yards from us. If I make one step in advance, if I were to pass the limits laid down for me, if I were to attempt to approach your camp, at that very moment my gaolers would rush upon us, and would, after they had killed you, take me back to the Queen. Come, there is yet time, let my friends desist from all endeavours to save me; let them cross the frontier once more. Perhaps I may induce the Queen to let you go without attacking you."
"Your advice is impracticable. The King of the Monbuttoos is bent on a trial of strength with Walinda, and we should never persuade him to beat a retreat. If the Queen persists in refusing him an interview and an alliance, he will attack her before she has time to attack him."
"She will refuse, just as she has already done."
"Then a battle is inevitable."
"Inevitable, as you say."
"And it means defeat and death for us?"
M. de Guéran bowed in silence. Then M. Delange said in a clear, distinct voice, dwelling upon each word—
"You know that we have two white women with us?"
"Yes, so the Queen told me. They are your wives, doubtless. You are travelling after the fashion of my old friend Livingstone, and as Baker was travelling when last I saw him."