The crafty Belgian looked curiously into the face of his companion, and smiled grimly.
“Well, if they halt there,” he said, “they won’t trouble us any more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I doctored the water before we left. That’s why I didn’t leave the blacks loose to drink it.”
“What!” gasped the Englishman wildly, starting to his feet. “You’ve actually poisoned the well?”
The Belgian nodded and laughed, without removing his shisha from his lips.
“You scoundrel! You fiend!” the Englishman shouted, his face white with passion. “I’ve done some shabby tricks in my time, but, by Heaven! I’d rather have given myself up than have assented to the wholesale murder of my own people like that!”
A sarcastic smile crossed the Belgian’s sinister features.
“Excitement is entirely unnecessary, mon cher Henri,” he said, calmly. “It may, you know, bring on a touch of fever. Besides, by this time there isn’t many of them, white or black, left to tell the tale. Yakub, whom I left behind to watch, has just come in to report that they arrived an hour after we had left, released the slaves, and watered freely, enjoying themselves immensely. Before he started to return, fully fifty were dead or dying, including all the white officers. But why trouble further? We’ve saved ourselves.”
“Trouble!” roared Snape, his eyes flashing with a fierce fire of indignation, “Get up, you infernal scoundrel, or I’ll shoot you as you lie! You’re an outlaw; so am I. Trouble! Why, one of those white officers was Jack Myddleton, my brother, and,” he added in a harsh tone—“and I’m going to avenge his death!” Instantly Dubois saw his partner’s intention, and sprang to his feet, revolver in hand.