Sanders, from his place of observation, grinned approvingly at the solemnity in which Bosambo clothed the ceremony.
One by one he daubed the men—a flick of the brush, a muttered incantation, and the magic was performed.
Sanders saw Kambara in the front rank and was puzzled, for the man was in earnest. If he had come to scoff he remained to pray. Big beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, the outstretched hands were shaking.
Bosambo approached him, lifted his brush, peered down, then with a sweep of his arm he drew the N'gombi chief to him.
"Brother," he said pleasantly, "I have need of you."
Sanders saw what it meant, and went crashing through the undergrowth to Bosambo's side, and the yelling throng that had closed round the struggling pair drew back.
"Lord, here is your man!" said Bosambo, and forcibly pulled forward Kambara's palm.
Sanders took his prisoner back to the Zaire, and from thenceforward, so far as the crime was concerned, there was no difficulty, for Kambara told the truth.
"Lord," he said, "my hand alone is in fault; for, though my people were with me, none struck Olandi but I. Now do with me what you will, for my wife hates me and I am sick for sleep."
"This is a bad palaver," said Sanders gravely, "for I trusted you."