Then, getting up, half stunned, from the grass, he extended his arms towards Harry.
“Kill me,” he said, “kill me, but not thus. Kill me with the English sword, for if I go back to my people without my prisoner, they will kill me with fire.”
“Come to think of it, my good fellow,” said Harry, “there need be no killing in the matter. You can’t go back. Come with me. The tables are turned: you shall now be the slave, I the master. I will be good and kind to you if you are faithful; if not, I will let the daylight into you.”
The reply of the savage was affecting enough. He bowed himself to the earth first; then, still on his knees, took Harry’s right hand and bent his head until his brow touched it.
“That will do, my good fellow. I don’t care for palaver, you know. But let us have action. Now you shall prove how far you are willing to serve me. Go back to your fellows, a rascally crew they are, and fetch another rifle and more ammunition, and just a little provisions if you can.”
The Somali knew what he meant, even if he did not understand precisely all that was said.
He was up and away in a moment.
Harry Milvaine waited and listened. He thought the time would never pass. Would the Somali be true or be treacherous? He might rouse his sleeping companions, and, while he was still standing here in the broad staring light of the moon, stealthily surround and re-capture him.
The very thought made him change his ground. He drew himself away under the shade of some mimosa trees and waited there.
At last a single figure, armed with a rifle and carrying a bag, drew up in the clearing that Harry had left, and looked about him in some surprise. It was Harry’s ex-foe.