"Who knows?" said Bosambo mysteriously. "Who can tell when I come, or my friends! For many men love me—Isisi, N'gombi, Akasava, Bongindi, and the Bush people."
He stepped daintily into his canoe.
"I tell you," he said, wagging a solemn forefinger, "that whatever comes to you, it is no palaver of mine; whoever steals quietly upon you in the night, it will not be Bosambo—I call all men to witness this saying."
And with this he went.
There was a palaver that night, where all men spoke at once, and the Kiko king did not more than bite his nails nervously. It was certain that attack would come.
"Let us meet them boldly," said the one who had beforetime rendered such advice. "For in times of cala-cala the Kiko folk were fierce and bloody people."
Whatever they might have been once, there was no spirit of adventure abroad then, and many voices united to call the genius who had suggested defiance a fool and worse.
All night long the Kiko stood a nation in arms.
Once the hooting of a bird sent them scampering to their huts with howls of fear; once a wandering buffalo came upon a quaking picket and scattered it. Night after night the fearful Kiko kept guard, sleeping as they could by day.
They saw no enemy; the suspense was worse than the vision of armed warriors. A messenger went to Sanders about the fears and apprehensions of the people, but Sanders was callous.