It was clear that the Wavuma would not surrender without a frightful waste of life; it was equally evident that Mtesa would not relax his hold upon them without some compensation or satisfaction, nor assist me in my projects of exploration unless I aided him in some manner. At length I devised a plan which I thought would succeed; but before I was enabled to perfect my scheme an incident occurred which called for my immediate intervention. Mtesa, by means of his scouts, had succeeded in capturing one of the principal chiefs of the Wavuma, and his Wakungu and principal strangers had been invited to be present to witness the execution of this chief at the stake. When I arrived at the scene, a large quantity of faggots had already been collected to burn him. By this mode of punishment, Mtesa thought he would be able to strike terror into the souls of the Wavuma. Mtesa was in high glee when I entered the council: he was unable to hide the triumph he felt at the terrible vengeance he was about to take for the massacre of Webba, his favourite page, and the peace party. “Now, Stamlee,” he said, “when the chief is at the stake,”—he was an old man of sixty or thereabouts—“you shall see how a chief of Uvuma dies. He is about to be burnt. The Wavuma will tremble when they hear of the manner of his death.” “Ah, Mtesa,” I said, “have you forgotten the words of the good book which I have read to you so often? ‘If thy brother offend thee, thou shalt forgive him many times.’ ‘Love thy enemies.’ ‘Do good to them that hate you.’ ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’” “But this man is a native of Uvuma, and the Wavuma are at war with me. Have you forgotten Webba?” “No, I remember poor little Webba. I saw him die, and I was very sorry.” “Shall this man not die, Stamlee? Shall I not have blood for him, Stamlee?” “No.” “But I shall, Stamlee. I will burn this man to ashes. I will burn every soul I catch. I will have blood! blood! the blood of all in Uvuma.” “No, Mtesa! no more blood. It is time the war was ended.” “What!” said Mtesa, bursting into one of those paroxysms of fury which Sabadu had so graphically described. “I will slay every soul in Uvuma, will cut down every plantain, and burn every man, woman, and child on that island. By the grave of my father Suna, I will.” “No, Mtesa, you must stop this wild pagan way of thinking. It is only a pagan who always dreams of blood and talks of shedding blood as you do. It is only the pagan boy Mtesa who speaks now. It is not the man Mtesa whom I saw, and whom I made a friend. It is not ‘Mtesa the Good,’ whom you said your people loved. It is not Mtesa the Christian, it is the savage. Bah! I have had enough of you, I know you now.” “Stamlee! Stamlee! Wait a short time, and you will see. What are you waiting for?” he said, suddenly turning round to the executioners, who were watching his looks.