At the fatal signal the executioners threw themselves upon Haviland, so quickly that it became evident that no opportunity would be allowed him of repeating Mushâd’s device. His revolver and knife were taken from him, and, firmly held in the iron grasp of these muscular savages, he was forced to stand powerless, awaiting the will of the King. No chance, either, had Oakley of coming to his aid, separated as they were by an infuriated and armed crowd.
“First of all,” said the King, “those who allowed the Arab to escape must go. I have no use for such.”
Two of the executioners were immediately seized by the rest. No prayer for mercy escaped them; perhaps they knew the futility of it. The King made a sign. Both knelt down; there was a flash of two scimitars in the air, and in a second two spouting, headless trunks were deluging the earth. An awed silence rested momentarily upon the multitude; then broke forth into hideous clamour for the torture of the white wizards.
For such these were, they declared. All the insects and herbs they were collecting—what was all this for but for purposes of witchcraft? Only that morning they had captured a huge scorpion, and had been found distilling evil múti from its venomous carcase. With this they had enabled their enemy to escape them. With this they had even bewitched the Great Great One himself. Death to the wizards! Let them take the Arab’s place!
Haviland’s shirt was rent from his back, revealing a curious jagged scar, running from the left shoulder halfway to the elbow.
“Hold!” roared the King.
All eyes were raised, so startling was the tone. The Great Great One was indeed bewitched, was the one thought in the minds of the now silent multitude. And, indeed, there seemed some colour for the idea. Umnovunovu had half risen from his seat, and, both hands gripping the arms of the throne, he was staring wildly at the unfortunate prisoner.
“Loose him!” he cried. Then, in excellent English, “Come here, Haviland. I know you now.”
In after times Haviland used to say that he had met with some wild surprises in the course of a somewhat adventurous career, but none wilder, madder, more utterly dumb-striking than when the King of the Inswani broke out into good English, hailing him by name. He started, stared, rubbed his eyes, gasped—then stared again.
“Great Scott! Am I drunk or dreaming?” broke from him at last. “Why, it can’t be—. But it is—Cetchy—Anthony—Mpukuza?”