“I fear a mad old man’s ravings! Tifum the Wicked fear what Soltali said! Bah, bah; sleep, Kalulu, go to sleep.”
“But stay one moment and hear me. Kalulu shall be King over the Watuta, and he will take thy head off surely, and give it to the Kituta dogs. Come here and bend thy head, closer, I wish to tell thee something,” said Kalulu, as he nodded with his head. “There, so! How dost thou like—” but that moment Kalulu buried his sharp teeth in Tifum’s cheeks, and held on with the tenacity of a bull-dog, while Tifum, uttering a shrill cry of pain, could only release himself by clutching the boy’s neck and strangling him to unconsciousness. Tifum’s face bore a frightful wound, for the teeth, filed into a point in front, according to the customs of the Ututa, had bitten a piece clean out, leaving the cheek-bone exposed, which quite spoiled what beauty he had for ever.
As he felt the havoc made in his cheek the man uttered a frightful howl, and seized a spear-staff and began to belabour the unconscious boy. He probably would have beaten him to death had not Ferodia appeared and ordered him to desist, and to reserve his revenge for the morrow, when he might take it in full.
It was difficult to restrain the infuriated man, while his whole head tingled with the most exquisite pain; but then Ferodia was King, and a King’s commands must be obeyed even though his whole body ached, and he at last turned away moaning over his wound.
Soltali, the Mganga, was more feared when dead than when alive, it seemed, for while his body was being rapidly consumed the people had begun to move their camp a few yards off, none daring to erect his hut near the awful ashes of the magician, and as night came, with its sombre shades filling the whole forest with almost palpable darkness, and thick, dark, formless shadows, it was noticeable that they still further retreated from the death tree, and whispered to each other their belief that Soltali’s spirit was in the tree, with great angry eyes of fire, looking down at the camp. Thus the mortal ashes of the old doctor, whom they had so cruelly murdered, were left alone by the superstitious people, and Kalulu, helplessly stretched near by, was the only living being within fifty yards of the dread embers which covered the remains of Soltali.
Tifum the Wicked, too much engrossed with the pain of his wound, had seen nothing of this movement, for he had retired to his hut, with his head close to the door to breathe the cool air of the night. In his hut were the spoils from Katalambula’s village, which his own particular slaves had carried for him. Among these were two bales of cloth, ten fine ivory tusks, a keg of powder, a bag of bullets, three or four guns, and, singular as it might seem, was Selim’s gun, the Joe Manton which Sheikh Amer had purchased for his son, through his Bombay agent. This accident may be attributed to Tifum’s cupidity, who had appropriated this gun as his own, on seeing that it was of a superior class to all others, as well as the belt, which contained a large supply of ammunition. Ferodia would very probably have appropriated such a fine weapon for himself had he not been so occupied with the extent of his success and fortune.
The night grew deeper and more sombre. Melancholy sounds were heard at intervals through the forest, and the superstitious warriors ascribed these to the restlessness of the spirit of Soltali, consequently they huddled into their huts, forgot the cravings of their stomachs, and sought in the cosy warm huts a temporary oblivion from their fears and superstitious troubles, and, as the night got still more aged, even moaning Tifum became tranquil and slept.
When the camp had become as still as though no five hundred warriors with strong lungs and a healthy capacity for noise within them slept in that darkness, Niani’s light, active, boyish form, who hitherto has been unnecessarily neglected, began to move from the neighbourhood of a fire where, along with other slaves, he had curled himself to rest, but not to sleep, in the direction of the slave-gang to which his master, Selim, Abdullah, gigantic Simba, and Moto belonged. The pale-coloured forms of the two Arab boys were clearly discernible, and choosing the tallest, he crept up to him, and gently placing his hand over the mouth of Selim, whom he rightly judged it to be, he bent his head low down to his ear.
“I am Niani, your slave; be still, master. I have come to save you, for I have heard Tifum swear that to-morrow you shall die with Kalulu. Hush! I have my knife. I shall cut your bonds, and those of your friends, and we shall all go away far.” So saying Niani released his hand, and with his knife parted the hark rope that fastened the iron collar, and in a second Selim felt his neck free from the ignominious chain.
Niani crept to Abdullah, and performed the same kindness for him upon the express condition that he should lie still until the hint was given to rise. From Abdullah Niani crept to Simba, and told that wondering giant who he was, and why he was there. Simba understood at once, and slightly turned over that Niani might cut the bonds which confined his hands behind his back, and raised his head that he might be released from the collar. Moto’s turn came next, and in a short time he was also free. Each head was now touched, and they at once rose and followed Niani past the sleeping forms, by the fires, and past the open huts confidently, but still quietly, until they came behind the fatal tree at whose base lay the ashes of poor old Soltali.