They marched on, with intervals for rest, but without food, for the rest of the day. The country became more and more hilly as they proceeded, but the Swahili, who led the way, was evidently familiar with it. Just before sunset they came in sight of a stockaded village, perched up on a hill, and surrounded by wide well-cultivated fields. The Swahili called a halt while they were still some distance from the stockade, and, leaving his prisoners in the charge of a dozen of the men, went forward with the rest to the gate. There he held a long parley with the villagers, whom John could see thronging the stockade. The Swahili turned several times and pointed towards him, and then the talk began again, with much excited gesturing. John could not guess the meaning of the pantomime; the only thing that was clear was that it had some reference to him. At length, when it was almost dark, the Swahili turned away from the gate and came back to the remainder of his party. Whatever the subject of the discussion had been, the result was evidently satisfactory, for a contented smile overspread the man’s swarthy face. He gave a curt order to the men: the prisoners were lifted from the ground where they had been laid, and urged towards the village with ungentle proddings from their captors’ spears. They entered the gate and passed through a vast throng of excited people. John was now able to exchange a few words with Bill, who told him miserably that this was the village of the "bad men" who had destroyed the ivory caravan. There was no time for more; the two prisoners were again separated; amid yells from the men and shrieks of laughter from the women John was hustled into a noisome hut, and there left, tired and famished, to chew the cud of bitter reflection, amid the pressing attentions of innumerable pestilent insects. "Here’s a pretty go!" he thought. "I suppose they won’t eat me, but what will they do? This Swahili is surely one of Juma’s gang, but what is he doing here? If what Bill says is true, there’ll be no love lost between Juma and these people. What a precious fool I’ve been! I wonder if those poor wretches with the hippo meat are collared too? Good heavens! if they get back safe to the fort, I hope Ferrier won’t be mad enough to come to the rescue. If he does it’s good-bye for us all. Oh! _what_ a fool I am!" To know one’s folly is a stage towards wisdom: many men never get so far. John groaned, and shook his head and body in a vain attempt to get rid of his persistent visitors. He tried to release his arms, but failed. At last, exhausted by fatigue and want of food, and resigned to the stings he could not avoid, he fell into an uneasy sleep.