When he had approached the curious object which attracted such attention and elicited such shouts, he stood stock still, as if he had been suddenly petrified; but seeing that the pale object bore the semblance of a man, and that it remained motionless, he advanced slowly on tiptoe, while his face underwent remarkable changes as his emotions moved him.
“What is it?” he asked of the nearest man to him. “Is that the Mienzi Mungu who left the gun?”
“No,” answered the man, shortly, “this is not the Mienzi Mungu, thou fool; ’tis but an Arab boy, who has died from hunger,” he added, proudly, and with the compassionate tone of one who pitied such woeful ignorance.
“An Arab boy!” he uttered. “What is that?”
“He is one of the white people who live in the middle of the sea,” the warrior answered.
“Well, what makes him so white? Is his skin like the shell of an egg? Is he hard or soft to the touch?” he asked again, with a strange curiosity.
“Art thou afraid of a dead boy? Go to the body and feel it, fool.”
The peasant smiled foolishly as he was thus rebuked; but presently he was seen to crawl towards the body and timidly put his hand on the boy’s chest to feel it; but he suddenly removed it with a cry.
“He is not dead! His skin is soft, and I felt it move!”
Moto and Kalulu sprang and knelt down by the boy’s side, and a joyful sparkle was seen in Simba’s eyes as he also bent down and placed one hand within that of the motionless boy, and the other on the chest. Moto felt the head, to see if there was internal warmth in it, and Kalulu seemed desirous of knowing the truth by reading it in the eyes of Simba and Moto with his own.