At that instant, as the chief executioner strode forward and held his dripping blade uplifted, ready to strike, the King raised his hand to command silence, and the hideously-dressed official paused in wonder, his sword poised in air.
Betea, the Ocra, bending low, was whispering to the King, when the latter suddenly took the nut from his mouth and said:
"So it is upon Omar, son of my enemy the Naya of Mo, that my eyes rest! Let him stand forth with his white companion."
Obedient to the command of the King, the executioners allowed Omar to rise, and in a few moments we both stood before the royal stool.
"How came you here?" asked Prempeh, scowling.
"I was captured and sold as slave to the Arab dealers," he answered, drawing himself up with that princely air he always assumed in moments of danger.
"And your white companion? How is it he is in our capital?"
"I have been to the land of the white men across the sea, and he returned as my friend," Omar replied. "We were travelling homeward to Mo when by treachery I was entrapped."
"By whom?"
"By Samory."