Then Mahmoud made his choice.
He hesitated not to tear asunder mother and child, husband and wife, sister and brother. It was merely a case of youth and strength with him.
When he had finished, the slaves were at once chained together, and soon after, having bidden farewell to this pretty king, the march was commenced.
There was weeping and wailing among the new-made slaves, and there was weeping and wailing among those left behind.
But what cared Mahmoud?
As they marched away, while ’Ngaloo’s warlike tom-toms were beating, and his chanters sounding, a music that was almost demoniacal, the poor captives as with one accord cast a glance around them at the village—which, savage though it was, had been their home—but which they would never, never see again. Just one wild despairing glance, nothing more. Then heavily fell the lash on the naked shoulders of the last pairs, and on they went.
“Dey come, dey come!” cried Raggy, in despair.
Yes, they were coming—Mahmoud’s caravan and his wretched slaves. They were soon in sight, looking just the same as when last seen, only with that dark and mournful chained line between the swarthy spear-armed Somalis.
Harry prayed inwardly that they might pass on. They did not, but stopped to bivouac on the old camping ground.