As they went forth with Dumaliso, a strange subdued roar was arising, and from every part of the town people were hurrying towards the great space at the head of which stood the King's throne. In thousands and thousands the densely packed mass of surging humanity blocked the way, and it required all Dumaliso's authority to clear a passage. A new spectacle seemed to be anticipated, and the pitiless crowd thrilled with delight as it speculated by what particular form of torment their traditional enemy was to die. It was horrible, and there, thickly studding the outer stockade, were numerous fresh heads, grinning in anguished distortion, being those of the slave-hunters, who had been put to death in batches. And now their leader, the famous and terrible Mushad, was the last. There was the usual roaring outburst of _sibonga_ as the King appeared and took his seat. There were the executioners, savage-looking and eager, and then--the last of the slave captives was dragged forward. Heavens! what was this? The bowed and shrunken figure, palsied and shaking, was that of an old, old man. The snow-white hair and ragged beard, the trembling claws and the blinking watery eyes--this could never be Mushad, the keen-eyed, haughty, indomitable Arab of middle age and iron sinewy frame, whom they had last seen, here on this very spot, hurling defiance at his captors in general and at the King in particular. No--no, such a transformation was not possible. But it was. Ill-treatment, starvation, torture had reduced the once haughty, keen-spirited Arab to this. Where he had defied, now he cringed. Yet no spark of ruth or pity did his miserable plight call forth in those who now beheld him. Brutal jeers were hurled at him. They had come to see him die in torments. They had looked forward to it from day to day. They were not to be baulked now. Of all this Haviland was aware, and an intense pity arose in his heart as he gazed upon the miserable wreck. He had thought he knew what savages really were, but now realised that it was reserved for the Inswani to teach him. "Ho! Mushad, my dog!" jeered the King, in his deep voice. "Thou who namedst thyself the scourge of the world. Why, I think the meanest slave thou hast ever sold would crack his whip over thee now." "Look yonder," went on Umnovunovu. "Thou seest those four poles? Good. Thou wilt be tied to those by an ankle and wrist to each, half a man's height from the ground, with fire beneath thee, and for a whole day thou shalt rest upon a warm blanket, I promise thee." The two Englishmen shuddered with horror as they saw what was to happen. The miserable slave-hunter was to be slowly roasted to death. Then Haviland spoke, as he admitted to himself, like a fool. "Spare him, Great, Great One. Spare him the torture. See, he has undergone enough. Put him to the swift death of the sword."