Bakahenzie advanced a step followed by the warriors. His voice had reached the falsetto timbre. Mungongo lost his head entirely and seizing Bakuma, began to [pg 172] drag her out of the tent. Birnier turned his head leisurely towards him. Said he very loudly:
“It is not seemly to rape a woman in my presence, O Mungongo. Let her be, for I will buy thee one.”
Mungongo ceased to pull at Bakuma’s arms and stared as if paralysed. Birnier saw the eyes switch in a terrified glance at the warriors behind him and heard Bakahenzie’s yell to kill.
For one moment he thought that indeed the end had come. Before he could reach the rifle a dozen spears would be in his back. He sat motionless, the Anatomy of Melancholy still in his hand, and watched the gauge of Mungongo’s eyes. Bakahenzie’s voice rose to a screech. Suddenly Birnier wheeled round in his chair, snatched up the pencil and staring hard at them, began to sketch faces on the open page of the book.
At the sight the warriors ceased their shuffling dance, were arrested with the spears in their hands in as many poses. Bakahenzie’s scream was stoppered as if by a hand upon his mouth. In the silence their heavy breathing rivalled the twitter and hum of the forest. Birnier sketched furiously, glaring portentously from the group to the paper. Bakahenzie took a step forward, a nervous step, and yelled, “Kill!” but his voice released those of the warriors. In one loud shout they cried:
“He bewitches us! He bewitches us!”
As Birnier bent his head to make another magic mark upon the magic book he heard the rush of feet.
“They have fled!” squealed Mungongo, still clutching Bakuma.
Birnier sighed and dropped his pencil as he glanced up. Bakahenzie and the warriors had disappeared, but by the fire squatted Marufa unconcernedly scratching his skinny ribs.