Klatch wore a leopard skin across his shoulders, and a skull cap of white beads, with a crest of white ostrich feathers; but the mantle which was slung across his shoulders was his only attempt at clothing. He spoke of one of the women as his wife, and the other as his daughter. “What want you?” asked Klatch. “We seek the white man’s mahdi,” answered Sherif el Habib, solemnly. “What you give for him?” asked Klatch, not comprehending the question. It was in vain that Sherif tried to explain. The more he tried, the more obscure did his meaning appear. At last Klatch thought he understood, and taking his daughter by the shoulders, gave her a push toward Sherif. “She is yours; give Klatch beads and feathers.” Ibrahim laughed heartily at the mistake. “Uncle, you have bought the dusky maiden; what will you do with her?” Sherif was amazed. His religious fervor was dampened. He explained to Klatch that he did not want his daughter, but the chief could not, or would not, understand. A compromise was reached, Sherif purchasing the girl, and then giving her back again to her father. When night came it was pleasant to sleep on the thick green turf, and all the party--save only Effendi--slept soundly. As for Effendi, he imagined everyone was going to kill his master, and, therefore, he kept awake, or at least only allowed himself short intervals of sleep. When Sherif el Habib emerged from his tent in the morning, he saw the chief’s daughter lying across the entrance fast asleep. She had gone to her purchaser, and no doubt the poor girl felt that she would be far happier with the white man than with her own people. All day the natives came to the camp, carrying small gourd shells to receive gifts of corn. Sherif treated them so generously that the poor, half-starved blacks fell down before him and kissed his feet. Max thought of doing a stroke of business on his own account, by offering to purchase a bull or a cow. But the natives would not sell. Exasperated, Max raised his gun and shot an animal, unfortunately a sacred bull. He was instantly surrounded by the natives who howled and yelled at him, threatening to tear him in pieces and drink his blood. He learned that to every herd of cattle, Klatch’s tribe had a sacred bull, who was supposed to exert an influence over the prosperity of the flock. The horns of the sacred bull were ornamented with tufts of feathers and strings of shells, which jingled as he moved along. Every morning the natives addressed the bull in the cattle kraal, bidding him keep the cows from straying, and to see that they found the best grass, so that they could give the most milk. It was one of the sacred bulls that Max had killed. Klatch, hearing the howling, went to see what had so disturbed his people. When they saw the chief, they clamored for Max’s death. “He killed the sacred bull,” said one. “Then he dies,” answered the chief.