“Takes a little getting used to, doesn’t it?” said his guide. “Look!”
Wagram looked, and then felt as if he must be sick. They had reached an open space; in it several men were at work—at work on the most congenial occupation of all to savages—that of butchery.
“This is their slaughter-house,” went on the stranger. “What’s the matter?”
For, with an exclamation of horror and disgust, Wagram had turned away, had turned his back upon what he had momentarily glimpsed. No mere glimpse of an ordinary slaughter-house had this been, repulsive and revolting as such a sight might be. In this case the victims were human.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, glaring at the other with loathing. “And you allow this—you—a white man?”
“I’m not going to interfere with the harmless little customs of my people—not likely,” was the reply, accompanied by a hideous laugh. “Well, if it’s too much for your weak nerves, come away. But—what do you say to my offer now?”
“I’ll take it. I don’t care how soon I leave this place; in fact, I’ll even increase the figure if you get me out at once.”
“I thought so. Well, it’ll be worth your while. You may take that from me—and the sooner the better. Shall we say fifteen thousand if you start to-morrow?”
“Yes; but you know you will have to trust me. I have no means of identification nearer than England.”
The other nodded.