with a certain smooth venom, "there is a great
sickness for you--and behold you will go far away and die, and none
shall miss you."

Bones went very red, and shook an indignant forefinger at the offending
prophetess.

"You're a wicked old storyteller!" he stammered. "You're depressin' the
people--you naughty girl! I hate you--I simply loathe you!"

As he spoke in English she was not impressed.

"Goin' about the country puttin' people off their grub, by Jove!" he
stormed; "tellin' stories ... oh, dash it, I shall have to be awfully
severe with you!"

Severe he was, for he arrested her, to the relief of her audience, who
waited long enough to discover whether or not her ju-ju would strike him
dead, and being obviously disappointed by her failure to provide this
spectacle, melted away.

Close to the gangway of the _Zaire_ she persuaded one of her Houssa
guard to release his hold. She persuaded him by the simple expedient of
burying her sharp white teeth in the fleshy part of his arm--and bolted.
They captured her half mad with panic and fear of her unknown fate, and
brought her to the boat.

Bones, fussing about the struggling group, dancing with excitement, was
honourably wounded by the chance contact of his nose with a wild and
whirling fist.

"Put her in the store cabin!" he commanded breathlessly. "Oh, what a
wicked woman!"

In the morning as the boat got under way Ali came to him with a
distressing story.

"Your Excellency will be pained to hear," he said, "that the female
prisoner has eradicated her costume."

"Eradicated...?" repeated the puzzled Bones, gently touching the patch
of sticking-plaster on his nose.

"In the night," explained this former slave of science, "the subject has
developed symptoms of mania, and has entirely dispensed with her
clothes--to wit, by destruction."

"She's torn up her clothes?" gasped Bones, his hair rising and Ali
nodded.

Now, the dress of a native woman varies according to the degree in
which she falls under missionary influence. Isongo was well within
the sphere of the River Mission, and so M'lama's costume consisted
of a tight-fitting piece of print which wound round and round the body
in the manner of a kilt, covering the figure from armpit to feet.

Bones went to the open window of the prison cabin, and steadfastly
averting his gaze, called--

"M'lama!"

No reply came, and he called again.

"M'lama," he said gently, in the river dialect, "what shall S