The sergeant started. Quicker-witted than the sergeant whom Tom had so easily disposed of at the plantation, he detected a foreign accent in the stranger's speech. Tom gave him no time to consider.
"Your life depends on your keeping cool," he went on quickly. "Don't make a sound. Keep your arms still and face me. The bush on both sides is lined with troops who will fire at the slightest hostile movement. Halt your men."
The sergeant hesitated for the fraction of a second, then called to the privates a few yards away to pass word along the column.
"They are halted," he said; "but there is something I don't understand here." He looked incredulously around him. "I don't know who you are, but if you are bluffing----"
"Let me convince you."
Tom parted a clump of thick bush on one side of the track, disclosing a negro kneeling, with his rifle pointed straight at the German. In a bush on the other side, nearly opposite, he showed another man. Moving half-a-dozen paces down the track he revealed yet another man, finger on trigger, to the astonished sergeant.
"Your position is quite hopeless, you see," Tom went on. "You had better surrender quietly. Give me your revolver."
The German threw a glance over his shoulder at the privates, standing at the head of the column of negroes.
"At once! Don't hesitate!" said Tom. "Your men will be shot down if they attempt resistance. Your revolver."
The man handed over the weapon sullenly.