In the centre of the erewhile camp they found the man they sought. The terrible slaver chief lay as securely bound as they themselves had so lately been. With him, too, and equally helpless, were about three score of his clansmen. They were the sole survivors of the massacre, and the site of the camp was literally piled with hacked and mangled corpses. Barbarous as had been their own treatment at the hands of this ruthless desperado, the three Englishmen could not but shudder over the fate in store for him and those who had been taken alive with him. To that end alone had they been spared, for such had been the orders of the King. "_Ya Allah_!" exclaimed Mushad, his keen eyes seeming to burn, as he glared up at his late captives. "Fate is strange, yet be not in a hurry to triumph, ye dogs, for it may change again." "We have no desire to triumph over you, Mushad," said Haviland. "That would be the part of a coward, and I hardly think that even you would name us that." The Arab scowled savagely and relapsed into silence, and they left him. When Kumbelwa asked them about the doctor they felt almost ashamed of how the elation, attendant upon their own unexpected deliverance, had sent their friend's memory into the background. Yet were they destined to miss him at every hour of the day. "He died like a brave man, Kumbelwa," had answered Haviland. "And now, what of ourselves; and how did you escape and come so opportunely to our aid?" Then Kumbelwa sat down, and began to take snuff.