Never before had Mpingu stepped foot within the precincts of the palace grounds, and when the imperial gate closed behind him he was in a mental state bordering upon collapse. He had heard stories of the cruelty of Sublatus, of the terrible vengeance wreaked upon his enemies, and he had visions that paralyzed his mind so that he was in a state of semi-consciousness when he was finally led into an inner chamber where a high dignitary of the court confronted him. "This," said the centurion, who had brought him, "is Mpingu, the slave of Dion Splendidus, whom I was commanded to fetch to you." "Good!" said the official. "You and your detachment may remain while I question him." Then he turned upon Mpingu. "Do you know the penalties one incurs for aiding the enemies of Caesar?" he demanded. Mpingu's lower jaw moved convulsively as though he would reply, but he was unable to control his voice. "They die," growled the officer, menacingly. "They die terrible deaths that they will remember through all eternity." "I have done nothing," cried Mpingu, suddenly regaining control of his vocal cords. "Do not lie to me, barbarian," snapped the official. "You aided in the escape of the prisoner who called himself Tarzan and even now you are hiding him from your Emperor." "I did not help him escape. I am not hiding him," wailed Mpingu. "You lie. You know where he is. You boasted of it to other slaves. Tell me where he is." "I do not know," said Mpingu. "If your tongue were cut out, you could not tell us where he is," said the Roman. "If red-hot irons were thrust into your eyes, you could not see to lead us to his hiding-place; but if we find him without your help, and we surely shall find him, we shall need neither your tongue nor your eyes. Do you understand?" "I do not know where he is," repeated Mpingu. The Roman turned away and struck a single blow upon a gong, after which he stood in silence until a slave entered the room in response to the summons. "Fetch tongs," the Roman instructed the slave, "and a charcoal brazier with burning-irons. Be quick!" After the slave had left, silence fell again upon the apartment. The official was giving Mpingu an opportunity to think, and Mpingu so occupied the time in thinking that it seemed to him that the slave had scarcely left the apartment before he returned again with tongs and a lighted burner, from the glowing heart of which protruded the handle of a burning-iron. "Have your soldiers throw him to the floor and hold him," said the official to the centurion. It was evident to Mpingu that the end had come; the officer was not even going to give him another opportunity to speak. "Wait!" he shrieked. "Well," said the official, "you are regaining your memory?" "I am only a slave," wailed Mpingu. "I must do what my masters command." "And what did they command?" inquired the Roman.