"Then I think we had better answer: it may be Mirambo himself. But we will not call here; let us get away from the hut. It will not do to risk bringing an enemy here." It was now nearly dark. Adopting Mwesa’s precaution, they climbed one of the trees that formed the boundary of their enclosure, dropped to the ground outside the zariba, and made their way into the nullah. The cry was repeated once more; this time it was louder. When they had walked nearly a quarter of a mile down the nullah, Tom ordered Mwesa to answer, and the boy let out a curious series of notes, like the dropping scale of the hornbill. There was a shout in response. "Mushota, sah," cried Mwesa, his big eyes gleaming. "He say what place me be." "Tell him." Mwesa directed his cousin, and in a few minutes the lad, so strangely like him, came bounding along in the middle of the watercourse. The two negroes embraced, and Mushota, his features and arms working with excitement, poured out a story in a torrent of clicks and gurgles, every now and then glancing at Tom, who stood a little apart. Mwesa’s expressive countenance showed that the story affected him deeply. He turned to his master, and seemed to strive to find English words in which to repeat what he had heard. "Come, let us get back to our hut," said Tom. "We can only just see to find our way. You can tell me all about it as we go." Tom had two natural gifts rare in one who was little more than a schoolboy--patience and sympathy. He could be stiff enough with his equals in rank and education; but with this faithful negro lad, ignorant, struggling to express himself in a strange and difficult language, he was so patient that Mwesa’s stumbling utterance became more coherent as he told Mushota’s story, and Tom was able to grasp its essentials. It concerned Mirambo. The old hunter, once a chief and a warrior of renown among his own people, had not taken kindly to the methods of the German drill-sergeant. Day after day he had been flogged by the overseers for slowness of movement or some other fault in drill, and at last the German sergeant, who had hitherto left punishment to the Arabs, had kicked the man in the presence of the whole company of recruits. Mirambo had retaliated with a swift blow that knocked the German off his feet. The sergeant, when he got up, was on the point of shooting the negro; but the head overseer, interposing, explained that Mirambo was Reinecke’s best hunting man, and the sergeant had then ordered him to be chained up until Reinecke returned from Bismarckburg. Only a few days before, a negro had been shot for a similar offence, and Mushota feared that his father would suffer the same fate. Knowing the whereabouts of the white man who had befriended his cousin, he had stolen out at midday when even the indefatigable German rested, and had come to beg the m’sungu to save his father.