The Hon. George was hesitating, when, of a sudden, at each end of the street there appeared, as if by magic, twenty travel-stained Houssas. They stood at attention for a moment, then opened outwards, and in the centre of each party gleamed the fat water-jacket of a Maxim gun.
The chief said nothing, only he looked first one way and then the other, and his brown face went a dirty grey. Sanders strolled leisurely along toward the group. He was unshaven, his clothes were torn with bush-thorn, in his hand was a long-barrelled revolver.
"Olari," he said gently; and the chief stepped forward.
"I think, Olari," said Sanders, "you have been chief too long."
"Master, my father was chief before me, and his father," said Olari, his face twitching.
"What of Tagondo, my friend?" asked Sanders, speaking of Carter by his native name.
"Master, he died," said Olari; "he died of the sickness mongo—the sickness itself."
"Surely," said Sanders, nodding his head, "surely you also shall die of the same sickness."
Olari looked round for a way of escape.
He saw the Hon. George looking from one to the other in perplexity, and he flung himself at the correspondent's feet.