They carried Sanders to the steamer quickly, for the Yitingi would re-form, being famous night fighters. Sanders, sitting on the deck of the steamer nursing his burnt feet and swearing gently, heard the scramble of the Ochori as they got into their canoes, heard the grunting of his Houssas hoisting the Maxim on board, and fainted again. "Master," said Bosambo in the morning, "many moons ago you made charge against the Ochori, saying they would not fight. That was true, but in those far-off days there was no chief Bosambo. Now, because of my teaching, and because I have put fire into their stomachs, they have defeated the soldiers of the Great King." He posed magnificently, for on his shoulders was a mantle of gold thread woven with blue, which was not his the night before. "Bosambo," said Sanders, "though I have a score to settle with you for breaking the law by raiding, I am grateful that the desire for the properties of others brought you to this neighbourhood. Where did you get that cloak?" he demanded. "I stole it," said Bosambo frankly, "from the tent of the Great King; also I brought with me one of the stones upon which my lord would not stand. I brought this, thinking that it would be evidence." Sanders nodded, and bit his cigar with a little grimace. "On which my lord would not stand," was very prettily put. "Let me see it," he said; and Bosambo himself carried it to him. It had borne the heat well enough, but rough handling had chipped a corner; and Sanders looked at this cracked corner long and earnestly. "Here," he said, "is an argument that no properly constituted British Government can overlook--I see Limbili's finish." * * * * * The rainy season came round and the springtime, before Sanders again stood in the presence of the Great King. All around him was desolation and death. The plain was strewn with the bodies of men, and the big city was a smoking ruin. To the left, three regiments of Houssas were encamped; to the right, two battalions of African Rifles sat at "chop," and the snappy notes of their bugles came sharply through the still air. "I am an old man," mumbled the king; but the girl who crouched at his side said nothing. Only her eyes never left the brick-red face of Sanders. "Old you are," he said, "yet not too old to die." "I am a great king," whined the other, "and it is not proper that a great king should hang." "Yet if you live," said Sanders, "many other great kings will say, 'We may commit these abominations, and because of our greatness we shall live.'" "And what of me, lord?" said the girl in a low voice. "You!" Sanders looked at her. "Ho, hi," he said, as though he had just remembered her. "You are the dancing girl? Now we shall do nothing with you, Daihili--because you are nothing." He saw her shrink as one under a lash. After the execution, the Colonel of the Houssas and Sanders were talking together.