"If they've brought us all this way for the purpose of cutting off our heads," thought Colin, "all I can say is they've gone to a lot of unnecessary trouble. Tiny, old man," he added aloud, "for goodness' sake don't let them see we've got the wind up. Let them see we're Englishmen."
CHAPTER XXIX
IN THE HANDS OF THE MAKOH'LENGA
Colin Sinclair had been curious concerning the mysterious Makoh'lenga. Now he was finding out more about them than he wished.
His captors were without exception tall and muscular and well-proportioned. Their garb consisted solely of a white loin cloth. Their bodies were "unadorned" with chalk and ochre after the fashion of the majority of African tribes, nor were there any evidences of voluntary mutilation so frequently to be met with amongst savages. The only ornaments they wore were armlets of gold just above the left elbow. Every male lenga over the age of sixteen wore one.
They were noticeably clean in their habits and persons, orderly and well-disciplined, and, in short, seemed far in advance in the principles of hygiene above even the doyen of the Kaffir races—the pure-blooded Zulu.
But even these qualifications were no excuse for present conditions. The possibility of making a touching acquaintance with the golden axe rather blunted Sinclair's interest in his new and undesirable acquaintances.
There was no denying one fact—he felt "scared stiff." It was only by a determined effort that he kept his well-schooled and steady nerves under control. Perhaps if his arms had not been so securely bound he might have precipitated matters by planting a blow with his fist between the eyes of the copper-hued giant who was watching him so covertly.
The Makoh'lenga seemed in no hurry to commence the next phase of the operations. In a two-deep circle they stood motionless as statues, each warrior grasping the haft of a seven-foot, broad-bladed spear, while on his right arm he wore a small circular shield with a convex boss.