“Very likely. Some people are bad enough to do anything; but I have half killed this fellow already,—you may do your share, and finish him, if you like.”
“No Shames; as you pegins this little job, it is besh you finish it yourself.”
Bad as were the two ruffians into whose hands Congo had fallen, neither of them liked to give him the coup de grace, and, undecided what else to do with him, they tied his hands behind his back.
He was then assisted to his feet, and, reeling like a drunken man, was led towards their camp.
Congo soon began to recover from the effects of the blow, and became sensible of the danger he was in. By their talk, he could tell that they intended putting him out of the way. From their savage looks and gestures he could see there was but little hope of his life being spared. His captors would not dare to let him escape. He had learned too much to be allowed to live. No assistance could be expected from his master and companions. They were waiting for him far-away.
“Is this the game you have brought back?” exclaimed the man sitting over the camp-fire, as the others came up dragging their captive after them.
“Yes, and as you are the cook, you must dress it for our dinners,” replied he who answered to the name of “Shames.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what this means?” interrogated the first.
“Only this: we have caught a spy. We have been tracked by him to this place. But there’s no great harm done yet. We’re in luck, and nothing can go wrong with us. Our catching this fellow is a proof of it.”
A long consultation was now carried on between the ruffians, in which they all agreed in the necessity of putting the prisoner to death.