At last, however, his feet touched the ground and headed by Omar, we all rushed towards him. He was a very tall, loosely-built man, his complexion almost white with just a yellowish tinge, colourless lips, colourless drab hair; vague irregular features, with an entire absence of expression. He wore an Arab haick upon his head bound with many yards of brown camel's hair, a long white garment, something like a burnouse, only embroidered at the edge with crimson thread and confined at the waist by a girdle containing quite a small arsenal of weapons, while at his back he carried a rifle of European manufacture, and around his neck was the invariable string of amulets.
"I seek Omar, son of the Naya, the Great Queen," he cried with a loud voice, as his feet touched the grass and he disengaged himself from the swaying rope, which still continued to descend.
"I am Omar, Prince of Mo," answered my friend, stepping forward quickly.
The messenger from the mysterious realm above regarded him keenly from head to foot, not without suspicion. Then looking him straight in the face, he said with a puzzled expression upon his countenance:
"Thou hast altered since thou hast dwelt among the English. Thy face is not that of Omar who left many moons ago with our Naya's trusted servant Makhana."
"Yet I am still Omar," he exclaimed, laughing. "Thy caution is commendable, Babila, son of Safad, but as the moon groweth old so does the boy turn youth, and the youth man."
"Thou knowest my name, 'tis true," observed the messenger gravely. "But where are thy royal jujus; those placed upon thy neck by the great Naya in the presence of the people?"
"I fell among enemies who burned them."
"The curse of Zomara be upon them," Babila said. "Who were they?"
"The hirelings of our enemy, Samory."