"Ho, Jonemi! Where are you now? And these? `Let the people have patience. Let the people have patience,' Your words, Jonemi. Great words, Jonemi! Well, the people have had patience, and now their day is come. By this time to-morrow all the whites in the land will be dead." "Will be dead," echoed those around, with an emphatic hum. "Why have you--have you all done this thing, Nanzicele?" said John Ames, striving to repress the shudder of loathing and disgust which shook his voice. "Have you not been treated well--treated with every consideration and justice by your officer? And yet--" "Justice!" growled the savage. "Justice! Now nay, Jonemi; now nay. I was a chief in the Amapolise, now I am a common man again. Who made me so? Not this"--pushing with his foot the bleeding corpse of Inglefield. "But for thy counsels he would not have brought me down. It was thou, Jonemi--thou. Now shall thy blood pour over my hand." Nanzicele all this while had been working himself up to a state of fury, as he talked into the face of his helpless prisoner, or victim, the others standing around emphatically applauding. Now he seized a poultry knife from the table, and, jerking back John Ames' head, held the edge against his throat. It was a horrible moment, that expectation of an agonising death, and an ignominious one to boot--one of those moments which could concentrate a lifetime of horror. The helpless man could do nothing. Every second he thought to feel the keen blade slashing through vein and muscle, carotid and windpipe. But the barbarian seemed in no hurry. He threw down the knife again. "I have a better way with thee than that, Jonemi. When we have finished we will burn down this hut, leaving thee here. Ah--ah!" Then he turned his attention to the table, where the other murderers were promptly demolishing the remnants of the feast.