The messenger felt uncomfortable. For some reason, best known to himself, his master disapproved of the killing of people, and also set his face against witchcraft. No witch doctor could practise for long in his district, for was not his medicine stronger than that of any witch doctor? Did not the doctors know it, and had they not all moved to a safer place? Who, then, could have done this killing by witchcraft? Yes, it was a big case, and he would take the man to his master; but he must break in upon the great man's rest with care, or there would be trouble.
Telling the stranger to come with him, he strode towards the house, pulling down his uniform in front and behind and settling his fez smartly on his head—evidence of some nervousness. Arriving at the door, he peered in. The hall was cool and dark, and, coming from the glare, for a moment he could see nothing; the next, he was aware of the Commissioner's eye upon him, and started violently at his master's sharp "Well, Mokorongo, what is it?"
He began well: "Morena, here is a man who has killed another, and wants to tell of the matter before the sun sets, when he, too, will die."
"Let the man come to the door."
For Mokorongo the worst was over. He had with impunity disturbed the great man; the rest would be easy. He fitly marshalled the stranger to the mat just inside the hall door, drew himself up to his full height, and stood by to obey immediately such orders as his master might be pleased to give.
The Commissioner, who was a good linguist, addressed the seated man direct:
"So you have killed a man?"
"No, Morena."
"And you will yourself die to-night?"
"No, Morena."