"Bring me the white man, alive or dead," he said softly; "also the white woman, well or ill, and the girl."
In an hour they brought the unfortunate missionary, having taken some time to make him look presentable. The wife of the missionary came in another canoe, four women holding her, because she was mad.
"Where is the girl?" asked Sanders. He spoke very little above a whisper.
The messenger made no answer.
"The girl?" said Sanders, and lashed him across the face with his thin stick.
"Master," muttered the man, with his head on his chest, "the chief has her."
Sanders took a turn up and down the deck, then he went to his cabin and came out with two revolvers belted to his hips.
"I will go and see this chief," he said. "Abiboo, do you run the boat's nose into the soft sand of the bank, covering the street with the Maxim whilst I go ashore."
He landed without opposition; neither gun banged nor spear flew as he walked swiftly up the broad street. The girl lay before the chiefs hut quite dead, very calm, very still. The hand to cut short her young life had been more merciful than Sanders dared hope. He lifted the child in his arms, and carried her back to the ship. Once he heard a slight noise behind him, but three rifles crashed from the ship, and he heard a thud and a whimper of pain.
He brought the body on board, and laid it reverently on the little after-deck. Then they told him that the woman had died, and he nodded his head slowly, saying it was better so.