"You may bring your people in, Makole. But I warn you it may not be to live in peace. We have offended Bula Matadi; Bula Matadi will come with a great host to destroy us. All who live in Ilombekabasi must not look for ease and peace, but for work and war. Your people must share with the rest; they must build their own huts, till the fields, repair the walls, learn to scout and to fight in our way. It is not peace, Makole."
"I praise Lokolobolo! I trust Lokolobolo! I will do all he says, and my people shall learn all that he teaches," cried the chief, slapping his thighs. Then, unwrapping the bundle of palm leaves, he displayed a shrivelled hand, and said—
"This is my gift to Lokolobolo."
"What is this, Makole?" asked Jack, shuddering.
"It is the hand of Boloko, who whipped us and killed us, who can say how many? We met him as we came through the forest, and my young men killed him, and I bring his hand to Lokolobolo to show that he is dead, and will trouble us no more."
"But we do not deal with our enemies thus," said Jack.
The chief looked surprised.
"It is the way of the servants of the Great White Chief," he said. "They kill us, and cut off our hands, and take them to their chiefs, and the chiefs are pleased and pay brass rods for them. I thought Lokolobolo would be pleased."
"Lokolobolo is Inglesa," said Lepoko. "It is only Bula Matadi that pays for the hands of black men. Give it to Mboyo; he is Boloko's brother. Boloko hated Mboyo, he hated Samba; Mboyo will be pleased."
"Bury it at once, out of sight," said Jack, "Bring your people in, Makole. Lepoko, take him to Mr. Barney; he will show him where to build his huts."