"A great king," he said shakily, "as big as a bull about the middle, and he wore great, white feathers and the skin of a leopard."
"You are mad," said Sanders, and ended the palaver.
Six days later Sanders went back to headquarters, leaving behind him a chastened people.
Ill-news travels faster than steam can push a boat, and the little Zaire, keeping to mid-stream with the blue flag flying, was an object of interest to many small villages, the people of which crowded down to their beaches and stood with folded arms, or with clenched knuckles at their lips to signify their perturbation, and shouted in monotonous chorus after the boat.
"Oh, Sandi—father! How many evil ones have you slain to-day? Oh, killer of devils—oh, hanger of trees!—we are full of virtues and do not fear."
"Ei-fo, Kalaba? Ei ko Sandi! Eiva fo elegi," etc.
Sanders went with the stream swiftly, for he wished to establish communication with his chief. Somewhere in the country there was a revolt—that he knew.
There was truth in all the old man had said before he died—for die he did of sheer panic and age.
Who was this king in revolt? Not the king of the Isisi, or of the M'Gombi, nor of the people in the forelands beyond the Ochori.