I turned to Omar. He still stood erect, with arms folded. But his face was pale as death.
[A] Maxim guns. They are called "pom-poms" by the African natives on account of the noise they cause when fired.
CHAPTER IX.
CONDEMNED TO THE TORTURE.
Eager to witness the agony of the son of the powerful Naya of Mo, the crowd of evil-faced men in silken robes who surrounded their brutal chief watched with lively anticipation the preparations that were in a few moments in active progress. The black slaves of the weirdly-dressed executioner first carried in a large blazing brazier, and rolling away the thick crimson carpet placed it upon the floor of polished marble in front of Samory's divan.
A slave boy had, in response to a sign from the great chief, lit his long pipe with its bejewelled mouthpiece, and as he half reclined on the couch he smoked on calmly, regarding the execution of his orders with undisguised satisfaction.
The slaves, each wearing black loin-cloths with bunches of sable ostrich feathers on their heads that waved like funeral-plumes as they walked, brought in grim-looking instruments of iron like blacksmiths' tools, strange spiked chains, fetters with sharp spikes on the inside, and many curiously-contrived irons, each devised to cause some horrible torture, each red with rust, the rust of blood.
As my eyes fell upon them I involuntarily shuddered. Omar, my loyal friend, was about to be murdered by these inhuman brutes, and I knew that I was powerless to defend him from their fiendish wrath. Already he was standing in the grip of two black-plumed slaves, while no attempt had been made to secure me. I stood near him, breathlessly anxious, wondering what the end would be.
