The man came a little nearer. “Those forty men--leastwise thirty-four men--that we brought from Msala--Mr. Durnovo's men, that cultivate this 'ere Simiacine as they call it--they're different from the rest, sir.” “Yes, of course they are. We do not hire them direct--we hire them from Mr. Durnovo and pay their wages to him. They are of a different tribe from the others--not fighting men but agriculturists.” “Ah--” Joseph paused. “Strange thing, sir, but I've not seen 'em handling any of their pay yet.” “Well, that is their affair.” “Yessir.” Having unburthened himself of his suspicion, the servant retired, shaking his head ominously. At any other time the words just recorded would have aroused Jack Meredith's attention, but the singular slothfulness that seemed to be creeping over his intellect was already acting as a clog on his mental energy. The next morning he was unable to leave his bed, and lay all day in a state of semi-somnolence. Joseph explained to the men that the leader was so disgusted with their ungrateful conduct that he would not leave the tent. In the evening there was a slight attack made from the southern side. This Joseph was able to repulse, chiefly by his own long-range firing, assisted by a few picked rifles. But the situation was extremely critical. The roll of the big war-drum could be heard almost incessantly, rising with weird melancholy from the forest land beneath them. Despite difficulties the new crop of Simiacine--the second within twelve months--had been picked, dried, and stored in cases. Without, on the Plateau, stood the bare trees, affording no covert for savage warfare--no screen against the deadly bullet. The camp was placed near one edge of the tableland, and on this exposed side the stockade was wisely constructed of double strength. The attacks had hitherto been made only from this side, but Joseph knew that anything in the nature of a combined assault would carry his defence before it. In his rough-and-ready way he doctored his master, making for him such soups and strength-giving food as he could. Once, very late in the night, when it almost seemed that the shadow of death lay over the little tent, he pounded up some of the magic Simiacine leaves and mixed them in the brandy which he administered from time to time. Before sunrise the next morning the alarm was given again, and the little garrison was called to arms.