Though the time seemed interminable, I do not think that the heated bar was before my eyes actually longer than thirty seconds or so. Yet it was quite long enough, for, when I lifted my aching eyelids, I saw everything as in a red mist. My left eye was frightfully painful, and every few seconds it seemed as if something in front of it obscured its vision. With the right eye I could still see fairly well, except that everything, as I have said, looked red instead of its usual colour. The hot iron had been thrown down and was frizzling on the wet ground a few paces from me. [35] Measured some weeks later by Dr. Wilson. CHAPTER LXXXV Bleeding all over--Insulted and spat upon--"Kill him!"--Urging on the executioner--Refusal to stoop--An unpleasant sword exercise--The execution suspended. MY position as I stood with my legs wide apart, with my back, hands and legs bleeding, and seeing everything of a ghastly red tinge; amidst the deafening, maddening noise of gong, drum, cymbals and horn; insulted, spat upon by the crowd, and with Nerba holding me so tight by my hair as to tear handfuls of it from my scalp, was one in which I cannot wish even my bitterest enemies to find themselves. All I was able to do was to remain calm and composed and to watch with apparent unconcern the preparations for the next sufferings to be inflicted upon me. "_Miumta nani sehko!_" ("Kill him with a rifle!") shouted a hoarse voice. A matchlock was now being loaded by a soldier, and such was the quantity of gunpowder they placed in the barrel that I made sure whoever fired it would have his head blown off; so it was with a certain amount of satisfaction that I saw it handed over to the Pombo. That official placed the weapon against my forehead, with the muzzle pointing upwards. Then a soldier leaning down, applied fire to the fuse and eventually there was a loud report which gave my head a severe shock, and the overloaded matchlock flew clean out of the Pombo's hand, much to everybody's surprise. I forced myself to laugh; and their confusion, added to the tantalising failure of every attempt they made to hurt me, drove the crowd to the highest pitch of fury. _"Ta kossaton, ta kossaton!_" ("Kill him, kill him!") exclaimed fierce voices all round me. "_Ngala mangbo shidak majidan!_" ("We cannot frighten him!") "_Ta kossaton, ta kossaton!_" ("Kill him, kill him!"), the whole valley resounding with their ferocious cries. A huge two-handed sword was now handed to the Pombo, who drew it out of its sheath. [Illustration: A BANNERMAN] "Kill him, kill him!" shouted the mob once more, urging on the executioner, who, his superstitious nature not having overcome the ill-omened fact that the matchlock a moment before had jumped out of his hand (which he probably attributed to the doing of some supreme power and not to the over-charge), seemed quite reluctant to come forward.