“That is true, Ndabezita (A term of honour addressed to royalty). But his people still exist.”
“Ha! How came ye here, ye two?”
Then, beginning, Haviland narrated all that had befallen them up to their battle with and capture by Mushâd. The King and all within earshot listened attentively.
“Somala? Where is he?” said the King.
The Arab was pushed forward and stood before the throne. A fell and menacing scowl overclouded the royal countenance.
“Another of these dogs of Rumaliza’s,” said the King. “Take him, ye Black Ones.”
The executioners sprang forward to seize the Arab. But, before they could reach him, Haviland had stepped between.
“Spare him, Burner of the Sun,” he said. “He is not of Rumaliza’s tribe. He is no enemy to the people of Inswani.”
A great groan went up from the assembly. Men held their breath. Had such a thing ever before been known, that a man should stand before another that the King had doomed to die? As for the despot himself, he had risen from his seat. His towering form seemed to dilate, and the scowl on his enraged countenance was terrible to behold.
“Thou hast thy head in the lion’s mouth,” he said, “and dost still dare to tickle the lion’s jaws. Are all white men mad?”