Chapter Twenty Seven.
In Thongs.
The prisoners were compelled to remain inactive spectators of a division of their property, most of which was appropriated by the chief himself, as a sort of compensation for the loss of his horses, and the damage his own person had sustained in the capturing of one of his prisoners. For, before securing Groot Willem, he had been sent to the earth under a blow from that sturdy hunter’s roer.
Beyond this present humiliation, the hunters had placed themselves under another and more serious obligation,—that of satisfying a desire for revenge.
“It is no use, baas Willem,” said the Kaffir, who had managed to get close beside his master. “We’ll be killed for showing fight.”
Congo next expressed his opinion that, had no resistance been offered to the chief, an opportunity might have been afforded them for returning to Macora. He was quite positive now that no chance for this would be allowed, not even to himself, who had only been pretending to be a traitor for the sake of gaining favour, and thus being enabled to assist them, his young masters.
“Do you think they really intend to kill us, Congo?” asked Willem.
“Yaas, baas. Sure they intend it,” answered the Kaffir. “They ’fraid now to let us go.”
“But, if they intend killing us, why do they not do so at once?” inquired Hendrik.
Congo explained, that their captors belonged to a wandering tribe of Zooloo Kaffirs, a warlike people, who had but little respect for white men. They were of a race that demanded tribute of the Portuguese at the north, and obtained it; and he was sure that they would never forgive the insult of their chief being knocked down in the presence of his subjects. That, alone, would lead to their being killed.