"What are you saying—will he let us go?" asked the girl.
"I was sayin' what a jolly row there'll be," lied Bones; "and he was sayin' that he couldn't think of hurtin' a charmin' lady like you. Shut your eyes, dear old Miss Hamilton."
She shut them quickly, half fainting with terror, for Bucongo was coming towards them, a blazing iron in his hand, a smile of simple benevolence upon his not unintelligent face.
"This shall come as a blessing to you, Tibbetti," he said almost jovially.
Bones shut his teeth and waited.
The hot iron was scorching his silk shirt when a voice hailed the high-priest of the newest of cults.
"O Bucongo," it said.
Bucongo turned with a grimace of fear and cringed backward before the levelled Colt of Mr. Commissioner Sanders.
"Tell me now," said Sanders in his even tone, "can such a man as you die? Think, Bucongo."
"Lord," said Bucongo huskily, "I think I can die."