The foremost of the two remaining Arabs and the negro were closing on the fugitive when Tom overtook the second Arab. He, hearing the thud of rapid footsteps immediately behind, checked his pace, and gave a startled glance backwards. Instantly Tom's fist was flung out, and the Arab, receiving the full force of the blow between the eyes, spun round, and rolled over and over. Mbutu, as he shot by, snatched at his falling musket, and making upon the pursuing negro, thrust it between his legs, so that he was tripped up and fell heavily. He clutched at Mbutu to save himself, and both reached the ground together. There was a short, sharp struggle; Mbutu wriggled out of the big man's grip, and drove his knife through his heart.
Meanwhile the fugitive, taking advantage of this miraculous succour, had stopped running, and was now engaging the only remaining Arab in a singular duel. He was swinging the chain upon his wrist like a flail, the Arab using the musket in his left hand to parry its clanking strokes. It was an unequal contest. The negro's force was spent; the chain was no match for weapons firmly held. The Arab was just about to rush in with his knife under the negro's guard when he was struck smartly behind the knee with Tom's thick staff, and as he half fell his panting opponent brought the chain down with one tremendous sweep and stretched him senseless.
The rescued negro flung himself face downwards on the ground, gasping, almost sobbing, with relief. Tom looked round for the Arab whom he had first struck down, and caught sight of him speeding back into the forest. The big negro was dead; one of the prostrate Arabs was stirring, the other still lay unconscious.
Tom sat down to rest, propping his head on his arms, and panting from his exertions. Mbutu stood anxiously scanning the fugitive, who by and by turned over, and looked at his rescuers with eyes that plainly told how puzzled he was at the mystery of their intervention. He was a fine-looking man, with strong muscular frame, and a face of great intelligence and some refinement of feature. About his close woolly hair he wore two thin fillets, and a dozen necklaces of string encircled his neck, a number of small wooden charms dangling from them; from a longer string a cube of wood hung upon his breast. Mbutu, after gazing at him in silence for a moment or two, suddenly addressed to him a few words in a Bantu dialect. The man started, fixed his eyes in keen scrutiny on the boy's face, and then answered him in the same language. A rapid dialogue ensued, and Mbutu, turning eagerly to his master, exclaimed:
"Him Muhima, sah; Muhima like Mbutu; him chief, name Barega. Say sah him fader and mudder; him gib sah hut, and food--eberyfing belong him."
Tom smiled wearily. His recent exertions had, he felt, precipitated the inevitable collapse. He was approaching the last stage of exhaustion.
"I'm glad, Mbutu," he said. "But had we not better be going? These Arabs may belong to a party, and we shall almost certainly be pursued and outnumbered. I can hardly walk, but the chief's village may not be far. Can he take us there?"
Mbutu again spoke with his compatriot.
"Yes, sah," he said at length. "Village five marches ober dar. Say must go all too quick."
"Five marches! I can never do it."