“Nay, Great Spirit, they are not present. Doubtless they are to be found in their huts,” answered the chief, saluting.
“Then, take men with you to those huts, find the witch-doctors, bind them with thongs, and bring them forth to judgment,” commanded von Schalckenberg.
A few minutes of dead silence now followed, at the end of which there arose, among the more distant huts, outcries and sounds of commotion, and presently the chief and his party reappeared, leading forth ten old and grizzled men of most villainously cunning and repulsive appearance, whose hands were bound behind them. These were brought to the front and ranged in line by the side of the king.
The professor looked at them intently for a full minute, they returning his look with an insolent glare of defiance. Then he said—
“Which of you is the chief of the witch-doctors?”
“I, even I, M’Pusa, am the chief witch-doctor. What want ye with me, white man?” answered the most hideously repulsive-looking individual of the party, sending a look of concentrated hatred and vindictiveness upward at the professor.
“It is charged against you that you have cruelly and maliciously incited the man M’Bongwele—who falsely calls himself ‘king’—to condemn many people to suffer death by torture, under the pretence that they were conspiring against him, knowing all the while that your accusations were false. What explanation or excuse have you to offer for your wickedness?” demanded the professor, sternly.
The man pondered for a moment, as though considering what answer he should make. At length he looked up, and said—
“Why should I make excuse? The men were my enemies, and I used such power as I possessed to destroy them.”
“It is enough,” said von Schalckenberg.