"O King," said Bones in the Akasavian vernacular which runs from Dacca to the Congo, "this is an evil thing that you do—against all law."
Open-mouthed Karata continued to stare.
To the crowded kraal, on prisoner and warrior, councillor and dancing woman alike, came a silence deep and unbroken.
They heard the words spoken in a familiar tongue, and marvelled that a white man should speak it. Bones was carrying a stick and taking deliberate aim, and after two trial strokes he brought the nobbly end round with a "swish!"
A bottle of square-face smashed into a thousand pieces, and there arose on the hot air the sickly scent of crude spirits. Fascinated, silent, motionless, King Karata, named not without reason "The Terrible," watched the destruction as bottle followed bottle.
Then as a dim realization of the infamy filtered through his thick brain, he rose with a growl like a savage animal, and Bones turned quickly. But Bosambo was quicker. One stride brought him to the king's side.
"Down, dog!" he said. "O Karata, you are very near the painted hut where dead kings lie."
The king sank back and glared to and fro.
All that was animal in him told of his danger; he smelt death in the mirthless grin of the white man; he smelt it as strongly under the hand of the tall native wearing the monkey-tails of chieftainship. If they would only stand away from him they would die quickly enough. Let them get out of reach, and a shout, an order, would send them bloodily to the ground with little kicks and twitches as the life ran out of them.
But they stood too close, and that order of his meant his death.