“What were his words?” he said, pointing to Oakley. Haviland told him.
“Not so,” said Umnovunovu, with an impatient stamp of the foot. “Let him say the words exactly as he said them. Or—” The last was rolled out in a roar of menace.
Oakley, greatly wondering, repeated his words. The King, still wondering, pointed with his spear at Mushâd. In a moment the executioners were upon him, and he was dragged to the place of his torment and death.
But to make him fast to the poles it was necessary to cut the thongs which bound his wrists. Mushâd, apparently more helpless than a new-born babe, saw his opportunity and characteristically seized it. From one of the executioners he snatched a heavy two-edged dagger, and with all the old determination reviving, in a twinkling he drove it home—hard, strong, and straight—cleaving his own heart.
It took the spectators some moments to realise that they were cheated of the glut of revenge for which they were there. Then went up the most awful ravening roar. The two white men! They had bewitched the Arab! They it was who had saved him from their vengeance! Let them take the slaver’s place!
For a few minutes the King listened to their frenzied bellowing. Then, slowly, he raised his spear and pointed at Haviland.