“Speak, dog!” I said. “Speak or die!”
But he would not. He talked swiftly and low in the Sechuana tongue, which none of our people understood, urging me to go apart with him for a space.
Just then the mountain-top was covered with our warriors, for Kalipe’s impi had now joined mine. All were in a state of the highest excitement and delight. Some were resting, some were dancing, some singing, some jeering the prisoners, others caring for wounds they had received, but the hubbub of voices was enough to make a man deaf. In the commotion I managed to get Maroane apart unobserved.
“Now, slave, thy last hour has come,” I said. “What are thy tidings?”
“Spare my life, father, and they shall be yours,” he said. “Only promise me my life.”
“Hearken, dog,” I growled, fingering the point of my spear. “If what thou showest me is worth thy miserable life, then I will not take it. But speak, or I slay thee here. That is my ‘word.’”
He knew it was. He knew that I was not one to speak twice.
“Come with me, father,” he said. “But—come alone.”
We threaded our way through many a noisy and boisterous group who jeered and threatened the man in front of me, reckoning him one of the Bakoni. But I restrained them, giving an order here, and a word of advice there, in my capacity of second in command. All thought I was going on a round of inspection, and then thought no more about anything at all. The while Maroane had been craftily leading me the complete circle of the mountain-top, and now we had gained the rocky cone which arose from the further end. Then, as we passed behind it, and the people were lost to view, Maroane bent down suddenly in the grass and dragged out by the heels the dead body of a man. Another, too, he dragged forth, then turned panting to me.
“In here, leader of the King’s might,” he said.