Bones, fussing about the struggling group, dancing with excitement, was honourably wounded by the chance contact of his nose with a wild and whirling fist. "Put her in the store cabin!" he commanded breathlessly. "Oh, what a wicked woman!" In the morning as the boat got under way Ali came to him with a distressing story. "Your Excellency will be pained to hear," he said, "that the female prisoner has eradicated her costume." "Eradicated...?" repeated the puzzled Bones, gently touching the patch of sticking-plaster on his nose. "In the night," explained this former slave of science, "the subject has developed symptoms of mania, and has entirely dispensed with her clothes--to wit, by destruction." "She's torn up her clothes?" gasped Bones, his hair rising and Ali nodded. Now, the dress of a native woman varies according to the degree in which she falls under missionary influence. Isongo was well within the sphere of the River Mission, and so M'lama's costume consisted of a tight-fitting piece of print which wound round and round the body in the manner of a kilt, covering the figure from armpit to feet. Bones went to the open window of the prison cabin, and steadfastly averting his gaze, called-- "M'lama!" No reply came, and he called again. "M'lama," he said gently, in the river dialect, "what shall Sandi say to this evil that you do?" There was no reply, only a snuffling sound of woe. "Oh, ai!" sobbed the voice. "M'lama, presently we shall come to the Mission house where the God-men are, and I will bring you clothing--these you will put on you," said Bones, still staring blankly over the side of the ship at the waters which foamed past her low hull; "for if my lord Sandi see you as I see you--I mean as I wouldn't for the world see you, you improper person," he corrected himself hastily in English--"if my lord Sandi saw you, he would feel great shame. Also," he added, as a horrible thought made him go cold all over, "also the lady who comes to my lord Militini--oh, lor!" These last two words were in English. Fortunately there was a Jesuit settlement near by, and here Bones stopped and interviewed the stout and genial priest in charge. "It's curious how they all do it," reflected the priest, as he led the way to his storehouse. "I've known 'em to tear up their clothes in an East End police cell--white folk, the same as you and I." He rummaged in a big box and produced certain garments. "My last consignment from a well-meaning London congregation," he smiled, and flung out a heap of dresses, hats, stockings and shoes. "If they'd sent a roll or two of print I might have used them--but strong religious convictions do not entirely harmonize with a last year's Paris model." Bones, flushed and unhappy, grabbed an armful of clothing, and showering the chuckling priest with an incoherent medley of apology and thanks, hurried back to the _Zaire_.