Desmont was evidently suffering from digestive troubles or a bad conscience, for his face was contorted, he moved restlessly and ground his teeth.
Suddenly he screamed like a woman and cried:
“Ach! Gott in Himmel! Nein, Nein! Ich . . .”
Bertram drew his revolver. The man was a German. Englishmen don’t talk German in their sleep.
The alleged Desmont moaned.
“Zu müde,” he said. “Zu müde.” . . .
Bertram sat down on his camp-stool and watched the man.
* * * * *
The Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker had made a name for himself in German East, as one who knew how to manage the native. This in a country where they all pride themselves on knowing how to manage the native—how to put the fear of Frightfulness and Kultur into his heart. He had once given a great increase to a growing reputation by flogging a woman to death, on suspicion of unfaithfulness. He had wielded the kiboko with his own (literally) red right hand until he was aweary, and had then passed the job on to Murad ibn Mustapha, who was very slow to tire. But even he had had to be kept to it at last. . . .
“Noch nichte!” had the Herr Doktor said, “Not yet!” as Murad wished to stop, and