zy
drone, the desire to see what had become of Muata was too strong to
resist. Softly he lowered himself to the earth-floor, but, soft as
he moved, others had heard.

"Are the mosquitoes troublesome?"

Venning started at the deep voice so unexpected. "I did not know you
were awake, sir."

"I sleep very lightly my boy."

"As you are awake, sir, I would like to say----"

But he stopped as the mat rustled.

"Come in," said Mr. Hume.

"Me guard, great master"--in the same soft, oily tones Venning had
heard before. "Hear noise. Think may be thieves."

"Mosquitoes, not thieves," said Mr. Hume, quietly. "Bring a light."

The Zanzibar boy complied, and, holding a taper above his head,
looked not for mosquitoes, but at the rifles in the corner.

"The skeeters, master," he muttered, with an evil squint at Compton,
who was blinking at the light.

"Better get back into your hammock, Venning. You can go, boy; and
keep a good watch, for we are coming to the thieves' hour."

The man showed his white teeth in a grin as he withdrew.

"Don't stir from your hammocks until I do," said Mr. Hume, very
sternly, in a whisper; then louder, "Good night, Venning."

"Good night, sir," said Venning, convinced that the master was alive
to the game, and more easy in his mind.

As he dropped off to sleep he heard the wail of a jackal, and next
he was awakened by the sound of a native chanting. It was already
daybreak, and Mr. Hume stood on the verandah, having drawn the mats
aside.

The sun, striking under the thatch, shone on the hunter's tawny hair
and beard, and Venning wondered how for a moment he could have
doubted the courage of a man with such a lion-like head. But he was
to receive another shock.

"Silence, dog!" roared the hunter, addressing the singer, evidently.

Compton, who was sitting on his hammock dressing, looked out.

"By Jove," he muttered, "he's shouting at Muata!"

Venning jumped down to the floor and looked out. Muata was still
bound to the post, and, with his face to the sun, was chanting his
words of greeting or of farewell in tones that lacked the deep
chest-notes of his war-cry.

One of the natives, hearing the order of the white man, flung a
stick at the chief with an insult; but Muata, nothing heeding, sang
on his slow song in a voice that was almost like a woman's.

"Must white men lose their sleep because a robber is to die?" roared
the hunter again.

Venning snatched up a beaker of water an