“It is quite simple. We just abandon the whole lot, and save ourselves and the ivory.”
“Very well,” his companion agreed. “I’m open to any move except fighting against the English.”
“Bah! You are full of scruples, mon cher Henri,” he laughed. “I have none—none. And I am happy—perfectly happy.” He was silent a moment, as though reflecting deeply.
“But,” he added, “I do wish we could teach these interfering English a lesson. It would do them good. They try to rule Africa nowadays. Ah! if we could—if we could!” And there was a strange glint of evil in his eyes.
An hour later Dubois and Snape, at the head of their formidable troop of brigandish horsemen, were riding at full speed across the desert due west, towards the far distant forest of Dyonkor, it having been decided to skirt this, and then travel south for a fresh raid in Congo territory.
As for the poor wretches bound together, and dying of thirst and disease, they were still secured to the palm trunks and abandoned to their fate, tortured by being within sight of the well, yet unable to slake the frightful thirst consuming them. Dwellers in the damp, gloomy forest, where the sunlight never penetrates, the intense heat of the desert struck them down one after another, sending them insane or killing them outright.
Time after time Snape turned in his high Arab saddle, glancing back apprehensively to see if they were followed. But his partner only laughed sarcastically, saying—“You still fear your friends the English? Ah! you have the heart of the chicken. All is quite unnecessary. We have made them a present of the whole lot, and I hope they will appreciate our kindness. Now we shall take it easy, and hope for better fortune with the next batch. I fancy that the new lash must be too hard. The women can’t stand it, so it seems.”
“A little less whipping and a little more water would keep ’em in better condition,” Snape observed. “Yakub is eternally lashing them for some imaginary laziness or offence.”
“Yes, it’s all due to that new lash,” the Belgian admitted. “It must be used with less frequency on the next lot.”
“It’s a revolting punishment. Twenty blows kill a strong nigger,” his companion declared. “The thing ought to be thrown away.”