“Chando!” repeated Ned. “I have heard that name before. Inquire where he comes from, and how long he has been a slave.”
Sayd put the questions.
“From the village of Kamwawi in Warua,” answered the young pagazi without hesitation. “It is far, far away from here. It is so long ago since I was taken that I could not find my way back; but were I once there, I should know it again. The hills around it, the beautiful lake, into which falls many a sparkling stream, rushing down amid rocks and tall trees. Would that we were there now instead of toiling over this arid desert. How delightful it would be to plunge into some cool and sheltered pool where no crocodile or hippopotamus could reach us. What draughts of water we would drink,” and the black opened his mouth as if to pour some of the longed-for fluid down it.
Sayd imitated the movement of his lips as he translated what was said.
“Chando! Chando!” repeated Ned. “Ask him if he had a father or mother living when he was carried off to become a slave.”
“I had a mother, but whether or not she escaped from the slaves I cannot say. I never saw her again. I once had a father, whom I remember well; he used to carry me in his arms, and give me wild grapes and sweet fruit. He was either killed by a lion or an elephant, or was captured by the slave hunters, who, it was said, had been prowling about in the neighbourhood at that time, though they did not venture to attack our village, which was too strong for them.”
Ned became very much interested in the account Chando gave of himself. “Inquire whether he can recollect the name of his father.”
Sayd put the question.
“Yes, I remember it perfectly well. It was Baraka.”
Ned gave a shout of joy, and forgetting his danger and fatigue, and all that was still before him, he rushed forward, and, grasping Chando’s hand, exclaimed—