‘I am Colour-Sergeant Larkins, of the Duke’s Own.’
‘Larkins? Larkins? What Larkins? Not Mi—Mi—Mimie’s brother?’
‘Her half-brother, Mr. Farrington, who told you not so long ago that if you injured her he would break every bone in your skin. Her own brother is here, too. What’s to hinder us from putting a bullet through you now, you white-livered cur?’
‘How dare you address me like that? I’ll have you placed in irons. You shall be charged with mutiny, by George. I’ll get you shot.’
‘Perhaps the Ashantis will save you—and me—the trouble,’ said Herbert, significantly. ‘But if we get through this day all right, you and I have other differences to settle, remember that.’
‘Threats? This is insufferable. I’ll shove you in arrest; I’ll put a sentry over you.’
Farrington suddenly turned quite white; his teeth chattered, and he could hardly stand.
‘What in heaven’s name is that?’ he stammered out.
A roar of voices, harsh, discordant, and loud enough to rouse the dead. It was the Ashanti song of battle, sung by thousands, as it seemed, uniting into one grand but savage chorus of defiance. Behind all was the hideous noise of screeching horns and the rattle of native drums. For some minutes the uproar continued, then ceased as suddenly as it had arisen. It was followed by a sound more familiar and far more impressive, at least in a soldier’s ears. This was the sharp and sustained crackling of musketry fire.
The ball had begun.