words of greeting or of farewell in tones that lacked the deep
chest-notes of his war-cry.

One of the natives, hearing the order of the white man, flung a
stick at the chief with an insult; but Muata, nothing heeding, sang
on his slow song in a voice that was almost like a woman's.

"Must white men lose their sleep because a robber is to die?" roared
the hunter again.

Venning snatched up a beaker of water and ran out barefooted. He
held the water to the chiefs mouth. Muata turned his smouldering
eyes on the boy, sucked in a mouthful of the water, and then shot it
out over Venning's outstretched arm.

Venning dropped the mug, and went back with a red face to see the
two officers regarding him with sour faces.

"Serve you right," shouted Mr. Hume, in apparent fury. "When will
you learn to treat a black like the brute he is?"

"Quite so," said the senior officer, showing himself. "I am glad to
find you have no ridiculous sentiment."

"Ah! good morning, my friend," said Mr. Hume, heartily. "As for my
young comrade, you must pardon him."

"He has his lesson," said the officer, dryly, as he pointed to the
soaked pyjama.