further proof of their power, were the three picked skeletons lying
stretched out to their stakes.

There are not many men who could have preserved their reason under
monstrous circumstances such as these, and I take it that there is no
man living who dare up and say that he would not be abominably
frightened were he to find himself in such a plight. In these papers I
have endeavored to show Captain Owen Kettle as a brave man, indeed the
bravest I ever knew; but I do not think even he would blame me if I said
he was badly scared then.

He heard noises from the village which he could not see beyond the
grass. He heard poor Brass Pan's death-shriek; he heard all the noises
that followed, and knew their meaning, and knew that he was earning a
respite thereby; he even heard from over the low hills the hoot of a
steamer's siren as she did her business on the yellow waters of the
Congo, in crow flight perhaps not a good rifle-shot from where he lay
stretched.

It seemed like a fantastic dream to be assured in this way that there
were white men, civilized white men, men who could read books and enjoy
poetry, sitting about swearing and drinking cocktails under a decent
steamer's awnings close by this barbaric scene of savagery. And yet it
was no dream. The flies that crept into his nose and his mouth and his
eye-sockets, and bit him through his clothing, and the hateful sounds
from the village assured him of all its reality.

The blazing day burnt itself to a close, and night came hard upon its
heels, still baking and breathless. The insects bit worse than ever, and
once or twice Kettle fancied he felt the jaws of a driver ant in his
flesh, and wondered if news would be carried to the horde in the
ant-hill, which would bring them out to devour their prey without the
train of honey being laid to lure them. Moreover, fever had come on him
again, and with one thing and another it was only by a constant effort
of will that he prevented himself from giving way and raving aloud
in delirium.

It was under these circumstances, then, that the missionary came to him
again, and once more put in a bid for the ju-ju which lay at the
pilotage. Kettle roundly accused the man of having betrayed him, and the
fellow did not deny it with any hope of being believed. He had got to
get his pile somehow, so he said: the ju-ju had value, and if he could
not get hold of it one way, he had to work it another. And finally,
would Kettle surrender