“Mostana!” shrieked the boy, and the word was echoed in a tone of surprise by all.
“Yes, Mostana was his name,” said Moto, unheeding the menacing looks or the angry murmurs which arose from all sides, but hurrying on with his story. “We took the village after a short time, though Mostana’s men fought well, and numbers of our people were killed. Mostana’s men were nearly all killed, and those who were left were made slaves, according to the custom of the Arabs.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Katalambula. “Those cruel people make clean work of it when they fight, but I—”
“Were they all made prisoners?” asked the boy chief, in a curious tone.
“All, except one, and—”
“And his name was—?”
“Kalulu!” replied Moto, in a clear tone.
Again rose a murmur of astonishment from all sides, but, apparently heedless that he had said anything very strange, Moto continued:
“Yes, Kalulu, the son of Mostana, was standing by his father’s side, when Kisesa, observing him, said he would give fifty pieces of cloth to whoever would take him alive. On hearing that, my soul felt a feeling of pity for him, as you must remember I was a Mrori; and, though I liked the Arabs, I could not kill my own people at their bidding, nor did I like to see such a brave boy as Mostana’s son in danger of being made a slave by Kisesa. So, on hearing the offer made by Kisesa, I snatched up a shield and rushed forward to whisper to him to follow me, but the boy thought probably that I was about to kill him, as he put a spear clean through my shield and pinned my arm to it.”
A loud cry of admiration greeted this, while the boy already advanced nearer to Moto and regarded him affectionately; but Moto heeded nothing of this, but continued: