“First,” Oscard had said, “let us get the crop in and then we can arrange what is to be done about the future.”
So the crop received due attention; but the two leaders of the men—he who led by fear and he who commanded by love—were watching each other.
One evening, when the work was done, Oscard's meditations were disturbed by the sound of angry voices behind the native camp. He turned naturally towards Durnovo's tent, and saw that he was absent. The voices rose and fell: there was a singular accompanying roar of sound which Oscard never remembered having heard before. It was the protesting voice of a mass of men—and there is no sound like it—none so disquieting. Oscard listened attentively, and suddenly he was thrown up on his feet by a pistol-shot.
At the same moment Joseph emerged from behind the tents, dragging some one by the collar. The victim of Joseph's violence was off his feet, but still struggling and kicking.
Guy Oscard saw the flash of a second shot, apparently within a few inches of Joseph's face; but he came on, dragging the man with him, whom from his clothing Oscard saw to be Durnovo.
Joseph was spitting out wadding and burnt powder.
“Shoot ME, would yer—yer damned skulking chocolate-bird? I'll teach you! I'll twist that brown neck of yours.”
He shook him as a terrier shakes a rat, and seemed to shake things off him—among others a revolver which described a circle in the air and fell heavily on the ground, where the concussion discharged a cartridge.
“'Ere, sir,” cried Joseph, literally throwing Durnovo down on the ground at Oscard's feet, “that man has just shot one o' them poor niggers, so 'elp me God!”
Durnovo rose slowly to his feet, as if the shaking had disturbed his faculties.