of the white man's arts, all contrived even then to transport puncheons of
rum through swamp and jungle for occasions like this. Now and again
persons distinguished from the throng by costlier dress and ornaments were
escorted to the spot and they drank with ceremonies. Wilson did not like
the prospect. His companion had broken loose once before under a similar
temptation. But there was no help.

Presently the Chamberlain, so to call him, approached with a number of
officers, and invited them to attend the Prince. They found that potentate
sitting at the end of a long file of chiefs. The floor of the hall was
covered with snowy mats, which set off the beauty of their many-coloured
robes. Beside the Prince squatted a pleasant-looking man in pink vest and
white lamba. He wore a broad-brimmed hat of silky felt, black, with a band
of gold lace, contrasting at every point with the showily-dressed chiefs
around. This, they knew, must be the high priest, the Sikidy. The Prince
received them courteously, but since their interpreter knew but little
French, and less, as it seems, of the language of this tribe,
communication was limited to the forms of politeness. Then slaves brought
in the feast, setting great iron dishes on the mats all along the row.
Simultaneously the band struck up, and women began singing at the top of
their voices.

The heat, the smell, the noise, the excitement of the scene were
intoxicating without alcohol. But rum flowed literally in buckets, and
palm wine several days old, which is even stronger. Wilson ventured to
urge caution after a while, and at length Leboeuf tore himself away. Men
came and went all the time, so their departure was unnoticed.

They reached the hut of boughs, now finished. Leboeuf threw himself down
and slept; relieved of anxiety, Wilson set off to gather orchids. Malela
appears to be a fine hunting-ground for collectors, but he only mentions
the fact to explain his imprudence in leaving Leboeuf for some hours.
The latter woke, found himself quite alone--for all the servants were
merry-making, of course--and he also started off collecting. Unfortunately
he traversed the village. And some of the chiefs took him in a friendly
spirit to the barrel under the tree.

Wilson was returning--happy with a load of new orchids maybe--when he
heard a shot, followed by a clamour of young voices. Next instant a swarm
of children burst from the forest, and ran screaming across the open
ground.