It was long past twelve o’clock before they thought of lying down. Ere they undressed they went for a walk as usual in their garden, to breathe the odour of the flowers, which the dews of evening never failed to draw out.
The moon was high in the heavens, looking like a little burnished shield in the blue sky, and dimming the light of the thousand twinkling stars. Suddenly from every direction there arose a muttering startled cry, which presently increased to a yell. Smoke, too, began to roll across the sky, increasing every moment, while tongues of flame leaped higher and higher.
They listened thunderstruck.
“Logobo—Logobo—Logobo!” That was the terrible cry.
“Heaven be praised!” cried Kenneth. “Now, boys, now, men, our time has come for freedom or for death. Follow me!”
He grasped his rifle as he spoke, and rushed out. The sentries had fled.
The whole village was in flames, and in the lurid glare, hand to hand in deathly combat, struggled two tribes of savages.
It was no business of our heroes, however. They rushed onwards through the melée, and in a very short time had reached and shouldered their boat.
One hour after, the din of the conflict was muffled in the distance, miles away, and Kenneth and his companions were safe on the river.
They were not free yet, however. Swiftly down the river they sped, racing onwards at all hazards. Daylight found them far away, but not safe. All the country they passed through gave token of the march into the interior of the Logobo men. The villages by the banks were fire-blackened ruins, swollen corpses floated here and there, and half-charred spars.