As we came to a halt and I surveyed the long row of burdenless captives, each with one hand raised and the elbow projecting forward, I could not be in doubt for a moment as to the nature of this procession. It was obviously a slave caravan, and it was equally obvious that I was destined to join its ranks, to be driven to some neighbouring market and sold. Alarming, however, as the prospect was, I experienced a distinct sense of relief, for the imminent and really appalling danger--that of being carried captive back to the mine--seemed to be past, and as to the future--well, that would be provided for according to the circumstances that might arise. My captors led me to the huts, where we found a fat, irritable old man sitting upon a mat and giving orders to some younger men, who appeared to be his sons. “Well, Maháma,” he said sharply as we approached, “thou hast kept us waiting a long time. What hast thou got?” “The people had no slaves at all,” replied the fellow who held my rope. “They say that the Ashanti king has bought all there were for fighting men and for his devil-worship, but we have picked up one on the road, as thou seest.” “This?” exclaimed the old man sourly, pointing derisively at me. “Why, he looketh like a Moor or a man of Asben. No one will have him as a gift.” “He is no Moor, my father,” replied the other. “He is a white man, a Christian.” “What!” bawled the old man, “an Anasára? But he looketh not like one. I thought they had yellow hair and eyes like those of a sheep. Besides, who would have a Christian? They are worse than Moors; as weak as children, and as cunning as monkeys.” “This one looketh not very weak,” observed Maháma, holding out my arm for the old man’s inspection, “and the wizards whom we met, who were seeking him, said that he had slain I know not how many of their fellows.” “Then, thou fool!” shouted the old man, “of what use is he to us? Who is going to buy a slave that is ready to slay his masters? There! take him away, and make him secure lest he fall to killing us; and make ready to start at once, for thou hast wasted enough of our day already.” Without replying, the somewhat crestfallen Maháma marched me down to the farther end of the line, and hitched my halter on to the collar-ring of the last slave, so that as the long queue began to move, I brought up the rear. As far as I could make out, the caravan was headed by the old man, Sálifu Sókoto by name, who rode in state upon his horse, followed by a body guard of the younger Hausas; then came the slaves, strung together by a long rope, and last of all, a rear guard of the older and more responsible members of the caravan, including Maháma and the men who had captured me. Many of the slaves carried on their heads burdens of some kind--cooking utensils, reserves of food, and a little merchandise--a highly economical arrangement by which all transport expenses were avoided.