We were as silent as two statues, waiting patiently for something to turn up.
At last we thought we heard voices in the far distance, which we had at first taken for the chatter of monkeys. The noise came nearer and nearer, and we finally distinguished the sound of human voices.
I got so excited that I could hardly breathe, and every beat of my heart became very distinct.
At last we saw four stalwart fellows, tattooed all over, covered with hunting and war fetiches, armed to the teeth with spears, and two of them carried Ashinga nets, with which they had been hunting on a small scale, and had with them one gazelle (a ncheri).
Suddenly coming to their canoe, they saw Querlaouen’s foot-prints, which threw them into a great state of excitement, when one of them pointed to the other, my foot-prints, saying, “What are those marks? they must be the marks of a spirit!” They looked at them, and suddenly an uncontrollable panic seized the four, and they rushed for their canoe, seized their paddles, and went down the stream with the utmost precipitation, as if fire and brimstone were after them.
In the wink of an eye they were out of sight, and Querlaouen and I came down from our trees. We had not been mistaken. The fellows were Bakalai of the Ashankola country.
It was late in the day, and there was no hope of our reaching our fortified camp before dark. We moved toward it, and at sundown we collected fire-wood, lighted three tremendous piles of it, and soon had splendid fires, cooked the three plantains each of us had for our dinner, and after our meal Malaouen and I had a grand chat.
Querlaouen is a splendid fellow. I love him dearly, and we are sworn friends. I feel that if any one should try to injure or kill him I should fight to the death for him. He is so brave, he is so kind-hearted, such a noble specimen of a savage as we seldom see! I wish I could have only been able to root out of him his belief in witchcraft and fetiches.
Querlaouen then told me his history.
“Chaillee,” said he, “my father belonged to a clan which lived in the Ashankolo Mountains, and in his younger days had crossed a large river, called the Ngouyai. He was the chief of a village, and a great warrior. In the country where we lived there was nothing but fighting and fighting; village was against village, and often brother against brother; not a day passed that some one was not killed. You know our mode of warfare; we kill any one, old man, woman, or babe—we have no mercy. One night my father’s village was attacked. We fought and fought, and at last repulsed the enemy, who fled in dismay. My father was killed, two sisters of mine were killed, also several other people of the village. Then we moved toward the banks of the Ovenga; we soon came down the stream, and now I have grown a man, and live where my village is. I only wish you would live all the time among us. We should take such care of you.”