“I do not know. When he brought her he bound her hand and foot and put her in the hut which he occupied near the village gate. We have not seen her since.”
Usula turned and looked at his companions. A great fear was in his eyes, a fear that was reflected in the countenances of the others.
“Come!” he said, “we shall return to the village. And you will go with us,” he added, addressing the west coast blacks, “and if you have lied to us—” he made a significant movement with his forefinger across his throat.
“We have not lied to you,” replied the others.
Quickly they retraced their steps toward the ruins of the Arab village, nothing of which was left save a few piles of smoldering embers.
“Where was the hut in which the white woman was confined?” demanded Usula, as they entered the smoking ruins.
“Here,” said one of the blacks, and walked quickly a few paces beyond what had been the village gateway. Suddenly he halted and pointed at something which lay upon the ground.
“There,” he said, “is the white woman you seek.”
Usula and the others pressed forward. Rage and grief contended for mastery of them as they beheld, lying before them, the charred remnants of a human body.
“It is she,” said Usula, turning away to hide his grief as the tears rolled down his ebon cheeks. The other Waziri were equally affected, for they all had loved the mate of the big Bwana.