“I suppose we can start to-morrow,” he said listlessly. * * * * * Before the sun came up, a little expedition began its weary march coastward. For three days they moved without opposition; on the fourth day they came upon a hunting regiment of the K’hassi--an ominous portent, for they had hoped to get through the K’hassi country without any serious fighting. The hunting regiment abandoned its search for elephant and took upon itself the more joyous task of hunting men. Fortunately the little party struck the open plain which lies to the westward of the K’hassi land proper, and in the open they held the enemy at bay. On the fifth day their headman, marching at the rear of the sweating carriers, suddenly burst into wild and discordant song. Sutton and Whitey went back to discover the reason for the outburst, and the man with a chuckle told them that he had seen several devils. That night the headman took a billet of wood, and creeping stealthily upon a carrier with whom he had been on perfectly friendly terms, smashed his skull. “It is sleeping sickness,” said Sutton. The three white men were gathered near the tree to which the mad headman was bound--not without a few minor casualties among the carriers. “What can we do?” fretted Lambaire. “We can’t leave him--he would starve, or he might get free--that’s worse.” Eventually they let the problem stand over till the morning, setting a guard to watch the lunatic. The carriers were assembled in the morning under a new headman, and the caravan marched, Whitey remaining behind. Lambaire, marching in the centre of the column, heard the sharp explosion of a revolver, and then after a pause another. He shuddered and wiped his moist forehead with the back of his hand. Soon Whitey caught up with the party--Whitey, pallid of face, with his mouth trembling. Lambaire looked at him fearfully. “What did you do?” he whispered. “Go on, go on,” snarled the other. “You are too questioning, Lambaire; you are too prying--you know damn’d well what I have done. Can’t leave a nigger to starve to death--hey? Got to do something?” His voice rose to a shrill scream, and Lambaire, shaking his head helplessly, asked no more. In romances your rascal is so thorough paced a rascal that no good may be said of him, no meritorious achievement can stand to his credit. In real life great villains can be heroic. Lambaire was naturally a coward--he was all the greater hero that he endured the rigours of that march and faced the dangers which every new day brought forth, uncomplainingly. They had entered the Alebi country on the last long stage of the journey, when the great thought came to Lambaire. He confided to nobody, but allowed the matter to turn over in his mind two whole days. They came upon a native village, the inhabitants of which were friendly disposed to the strange white men, and here they rested their weary bodies for the space of three days.