"I stole it," said Bosambo frankly, "from the tent of the Great King; also I brought with me one of the stones upon which my lord would not stand. I brought this, thinking that it would be evidence."
Sanders nodded, and bit his cigar with a little grimace. "On which my lord would not stand," was very prettily put.
"Let me see it," he said; and Bosambo himself carried it to him.
It had borne the heat well enough, but rough handling had chipped a corner; and Sanders looked at this cracked corner long and earnestly.
"Here," he said, "is an argument that no properly constituted British Government can overlook—I see Limbili's finish."
The rainy season came round and the springtime, before Sanders again stood in the presence of the Great King. All around him was desolation and death. The plain was strewn with the bodies of men, and the big city was a smoking ruin. To the left, three regiments of Houssas were encamped; to the right, two battalions of African Rifles sat at "chop," and the snappy notes of their bugles came sharply through the still air.
"I am an old man," mumbled the king; but the girl who crouched at his side said nothing. Only her eyes never left the brick-red face of Sanders.
"Old you are," he said, "yet not too old to die."
"I am a great king," whined the other, "and it is not proper that a great king should hang."