Mr. Hume nodded, and sat with his arms resting on his knees, smoking, and staring at nothing.
Muata joined them, but his coming did not rouse them.
"I have looked down on the gates, Ngonyama. As you said, the river was blocked by Hassan; but there is no sign of the thief, only some canoes dropped by his men in their flight."
He sat down and smoked, too, with the same listless look on his face.
The jackal rose at his master's coming, and stood whining and sniffing the air.
No one took any notice of him but Venning, who coaxed him to him, and placed an arm round his yellow neck.
"Why don't they sing something else?" said Compton, irritably, as the mournful wail dinned its misery into his ears.
Muata looked at the white men. "It is the rains," he said.
"Eh?"
"The rains are coming. Maybe that is why Hassan struck so soon, for when the rains come, every warrior is like the bow-string that has been soaked in water. They hide the sun, they breed chills and sickness. I can feel the breath of them in my bones. It is the rains."