set some of the prisoners free and see if
Ma will be satisfied." After giving a number a terrible native oath, and
making them swear they were not guilty, they handed them over to Ma.

"Now," said the freeman, "we will kill the others."

"No," said Ma, and dared them to do such a dreadful thing.

They stormed and raged at her.

"We shall burn down the house and yard."

"All right," she retorted. "They are not mine."

More prisoners were released, and only three were left. Eme Ete came and
knelt before her brother and begged him to set free one of them, a weak
and timid creature, and this was done. A man and woman now remained, and
Ma was resolved to save both. After a bitter struggle they let the man
go, but nothing would make them give up the woman. She was doomed to
death.

One afternoon Ma was secretly told that the funeral and the murder were
to take place that night, and she was sick at heart. But when darkness
fell, unknown hands--were they the hands of Eme Ete?--cut the chains
that bound the victim to the post, and with her leg irons on she crawled
over the roof and found a refuge in Ma's room, from which, later, she
fled to the freedom of the bush.

So the funeral of the young chief took place, but only a cow was killed
and put into the coffin. No human blood was shed. It was the first time
in the history of the tribe that such a wonderful thing had happened,
and it was due to Ma's heroism and faith.

Two of the parties who went to the funeral met in the forest and
quarrelled, and a man's head was cut off. War was declared, and there
was much fighting before Ma got them to stop and settle the matter by
palaver. "Blood for blood," was the verdict; "the murderer must die." It
was a custom of the natives that another could suffer in the place of
one who was condemned. This man's friends offered his youngest brother,
a little child, but the judge would not have him. Then a bigger brother
was sent, and accepted. Before he could be killed, however, he escaped.
One day Ma heard the sound of singing and joy-guns, and was told that he
had been found and put to a cruel death before the eyes of his mother
and sister.

A day or two afterwards loud screams filled the air. Ma rushed out and
saw the women and children fleeing towards her yard.

"Egbo! Egbo!" they cried.

She listened, and heard the throb-throbbing of a drum. Egbo was a more
dreadful thing in Okoyong than in Calabar, for there was no law against