"I do not know about that," replied Kitembo.
"I thought you wanted to be a king," cried Zveri. "You'd make a hell of a king."
For the moment Kitembo had forgotten the dazzling prize that Zveri had held before his eyes for months—to be king of Kenya. That was worth risking much for.
"We will go on," he said.
"You may have to use force," said Zveri, "but stop at nothing. We must go on, no matter what happens," and then he turned to his other lieutenants. "Romero, you and Mori go to the rear of the column and shoot every man who refuses to advance."
The men had not as yet refused to go on, and when the order to march was given, they sullenly took their places in the column. For an hour they marched thus; and then, far ahead, came the weird cry that many of them had heard before at Opar, and a few minutes later a voice out of the distance called to them. "Desert the white men," it said.
The blacks whispered among themselves, and it was evident that trouble was brewing; but Kitembo managed to persuade them to continue the march, a thing that Zveri never could have accomplished.
"I wish we could get that trouble-maker," said Zveri to Zora Drinov, as the two walked together near the head of the column. "If he would only show himself once, so that we could get a shot at him; that's all I want."
"It is some one familiar with the workings of the native mind," said the girl. "Probably a medicine man of some tribe through whose territory we are marching."
"I hope that it is nothing more than that," replied Zveri. "I have no doubt that the man is a native, but I am afraid that he is acting on instructions from either the British or the Italians, who hope thus to disorganize and delay us until they can mobilize a force with which to attack us."