t the bottom of this conspiracy of silence."

Just at that moment the black face of that worthy, rendered darker by the
snow-white haick that surrounded it, appeared among the tangled bamboos.
He had missed us, and had come back to search. Yes, my surmise seemed
correct. He was watching us closely and trying to understand our
conversation.

That evening when we halted and the natives went into the bush to
collect fuel for the fire, I managed to take one or two of them aside and
secretly inquire our destination. But I got the same answer always.

"Zomara has tied our tongues. He commands us to be mute, or we shall be
destroyed to the last one."

To endeavour to learn anything from these simple-minded blacks seemed
useless. They would speak freely on every subject, indeed they seemed
fond of talking with one whose face was white, yet regarding our journey
they obeyed the command of the fetish-man to the very letter. It is the
same everywhere in West and Central Africa; the fetish-man rules. What he
says is more law than the word of kings. If he declares a man or woman
bewitched that person will assuredly be murdered before the sun sets; if
he orders the people of the village to perform a certain action they will
do it, even if death stares them in the face. They blindly believe that
the fetish is all-powerful, and that the half naked dancing savages who
administer it are endowed with supernatural powers.

That night, feeling tired out I threw myself down early near the camp
fire and slept soundly for several hours. But at length some unusual
sound awoke me, and when I opened my eyes I saw that the fire had died
down to one single flickering ember, which still blazing cast a fitful
light upon the boles of the forest giants around.

Scarcely had I opened my eyes when I became conscious of low whispering
in my vicinity. This thoroughly aroused me, and without stirring my body
I slowly turned my head, when to my astonishment I beheld Kouaga,
standing erect with arms folded beneath his white burnouse, talking in an
undertone to a dark-bearded stranger who also wore flowing Arab garments
and bore in his hand a long-barrelled flint-lock gun with
quaintly-inlaid stock. The man seemed older than the Grand Vizier of Mo,
for his beard was tinged with grey, and the brown hand that held the gun
was lean and bony.

I strained my ears to catch the drift of their earnest conversation, but
could not. It was tantalizing that they sp