ch was prolonged by the implacable
hatred of old Fumba.

However, before Kali succeeded in quelling it, it was daylight. The
sun, as is usual under the equator, rolled quickly from beyond the
mountains, and flooded with a bright light the battle-field on which
lay over two hundred Samburu corpses pierced by spears or crushed by
maces. After a certain time, when the battle finally ceased and only
the joyful yells of the Wahimas disturbed the morning's quiet, Kali
again appeared, but with a face so dejected and sad that it could be
perceived even from a distance that some kind of misfortune had
overtaken him.

In fact, when he stood before Stas, he began to strike his head with
his fists and exclaim sorrowfully:

"Oh, great master!--Fumba kufa! Fumba kufa!" (is slain).

"Slain?" Stas repeated.

Kali related what had happened, and from his words it appeared that the
cause of the occurrence was only the inveterate hatred of Fumba, for
after the battle had ceased, he still wanted to give the last blow to
two Samburus, and from one of them he received the stroke of a spear.

The news spread among all the Wahimas in the twinkling of an eye and
around Kali a mob gathered. A few moments later six warriors bore on
spears the old king, who was not killed but fatally wounded. Before his
death he desired to see the mighty master, the real conqueror of the
Samburus, sitting on an elephant.

Accordingly uncommon admiration struggled in his eyes with the dusk
with which death was dimming them, and his pale lips, stretched by
"pelele," whispered lowly:

"Yancig! Yancig!"

But immediately after that his head reclined backward, his mouth opened
wide--and he died.

Kali, who loved him, with tears threw himself upon his breast. Among
the warriors some began to strike their heads, others to proclaim Kali
king and to "yancig" in his honor. Some fell before the young ruler on
their faces. No one raised a voice in opposition, as the right to rule
belonged to Kali not only by law, as the oldest son of Fumba, but also
as a conqueror.

In the meantime, in the huts of the fetish-men in the boma on the
mountain-top, resounded the savage din of the wicked Mzimu, the same as
Stas had heard in the first negro village, but this time it was not
directed against him but was demanding the death of the prisoners for
killing Fumba. The drums began to rumble. The warriors formed in a long
host of three men in a row and commenced a war dance aro