were taking in the surroundings.

The dead rhinoceros lay a scant fifteen paces distant; loads were
scattered everywhere; the _askaris_, their ancient muskets reloaded, had
drawn near in curiosity. From the thorn trees across the tiny grass
opening porters were descending, very gingerly, and with lamentations. It
is comparatively easy to ascend a thorn tree with the fear of death
snapping at your heels: to descend in cold blood is another matter.

"Why don't you do your work!" he addressed the soldiers. "Do you want to
catch _kiboko_?"

The startled _askaris_ scuttled away about their business, which was, at
this moment, to herd and hustle the reluctant porters back to their job.
Kingozi, his head and jaw thrust forward, stared after them, his eyes--
indeed, his whole personality--projecting aggressive force. The men
hurried to their positions, their loud laughter stilled, glancing
fearfully and furtively over their shoulders, whipped by the baleful glare
with which Kingozi silently battered them.

[Illustration: "'If you _will_ ride in a hammock, you ought to teach your
men to shoot,' was Kingozi's greeting"]

Only when the last man had picked up his load did Kingozi turn again to
the woman. Although her bosom still heaved with emotion, it was a
suppressed emotion. He met a face slightly and inscrutably smiling.

"You take it upon yourself to manage my safari?" she said. "You think I
cannot manage my men? It is kind of you."