"One of your own people! It must be some one from the plantation. Answer him ... No, wait. Reinecke may be setting a trap for us. Perhaps he has visited the pit and discovered my escape, and guesses I may be somewhere in the forest."
Again they heard the cry.
"Who knows you are with me, besides Mirambo?" asked Tom.
"Mushota, no more, sah. Mirambo say no tell: berry wise man, Mirambo."
"Then I think we had better answer: it may be Mirambo himself. But we will not call here; let us get away from the hut. It will not do to risk bringing an enemy here."
It was now nearly dark. Adopting Mwesa's precaution, they climbed one of the trees that formed the boundary of their enclosure, dropped to the ground outside the zariba, and made their way into the nullah. The cry was repeated once more; this time it was louder. When they had walked nearly a quarter of a mile down the nullah, Tom ordered Mwesa to answer, and the boy let out a curious series of notes, like the dropping scale of the hornbill. There was a shout in response.
"Mushota, sah," cried Mwesa, his big eyes gleaming. "He say what place me be."
"Tell him."
Mwesa directed his cousin, and in a few minutes the lad, so strangely like him, came bounding along in the middle of the watercourse. The two negroes embraced, and Mushota, his features and arms working with excitement, poured out a story in a torrent of clicks and gurgles, every now and then glancing at Tom, who stood a little apart.
Mwesa's expressive countenance showed that the story affected him deeply. He turned to his master, and seemed to strive to find English words in which to repeat what he had heard.