CHAPTER V


The howls became a roar, blind passion was changed into purposeful
fury. Who were these white men to march so boldly into the presence
of the King without even the formality of sending an envoy ahead?
For the King of Bekwando, drunk or sober, was a stickler for
etiquette. It pleased him to keep white men waiting. For days
sometimes a visitor was kept waiting his pleasure, not altogether
certain either as to his ultimate fate, for there were ugly stories
as to those who had journeyed to Bekwando and never been seen or
heard of since. Those were the sort of visitors with whom his ebon
Majesty loved to dally until they became pale with fright or furious
with anger and impatience; but men like this white captain, who had
brought him no presents, who came in overwhelming force and demanded
a passage through his country as a matter of right were his special
detestation. On his arrival he had simply marched into the place
at the head of his columns of Hausas without ceremony, almost as a
master, into the very presence of the King. Now he had come again
with one of those other miscreants who at least had knelt before him
and brought rum and many other presents. A slow, burning, sullen
wrath was kindled in the King's heart as the three men drew near.
His people, half-mad with excitement and debauch, needed only a cry
from him to have closed like magic round these insolent intruders.
His thick lips were parted, his breath came hot and fierce whilst he
hesitated. But away outside the clearing was that little army of
Hausas, clean-limbed, faithful, well drilled and armed. He choked
down his wrath. There were grim stories about those who had yielded
to the luxury of slaying these white men - stories of villages razed