It moved cautiously, halting now and then as though not certain of its ground. Bosambo rose without sound. “Friend,” he said, “you move in silence.”

“That is the royal way,” said the figure.

“Life is full of silences,” said Bosambo.

“None are so silent as the dead,” was the response. They said these things glibly, as men repeating a ritual, as, indeed, they were.

“Sit with me, my brother,” said Bosambo, and the other came to his side and sank down on his haunches.

“This I say to you, Bosambo,” said the stranger, “that oaths are oaths, and men who swear to blood brotherhood do live and die one for the other.”

“That is true,” said Bosambo; “hence I have come; for when yesterday a strange forest man brought me a little water in a shell, and in that water a berry, I knew that the Silent Ones had need of me.” The stranger nodded his head.

“Yes, it is many years since I swore the oath,” mused Bosambo; “and I was very young, and the Silent Ones do not walk in the Ochori country, but in Nigeria, which is a month of marches away.”

The man by his side made a little clicking noise with his mouth.

“I am here,” he said importantly. “I, Tambeli, a traveller, also, by some accounted king of the People-Who-Are-Not All-Alike. Also a high man in the Order of the Silent Ones, ruthless avengers of slights and controllers of ju-jus.”

“Lord, I gathered so much,” said the humble Bosambo, “by your honour’s summons. Now tell me how I may serve my brother, who is alone in this country?”

There was a note of careless interrogation in his voice, and the hand farthest from his visitor fingered the thin, long blade of a knife.

“Not alone, brother,” said Tambeli, with decision, “for there are many brethren of our society who watch my coming and going.”

“That is as well,” said Bosambo truthfully, and quietly slipped the knife back into its wooden sheath.

“Now you can serve me thus,” said Tambeli. “I am the king of a vengeful people who hate Sandi, and, behold, he is coming with soldiers to punish them. And in his coming he must pass through the Ochori country, sitting down with you for a day.”

“All this is true,” said Bosambo conventionally, and waited.

Tambeli put his hand beneath his robe and brought forth a short stick of bamboo.

“Bosambo,” he said, “there is a spirit in this which will do little good to Sandi. For if you cut away the gum which seals one end you will find a powder such as the witch-doctors of my people make, and this can be emptied on the ‘chop’ of Sandi, and he will know nothing, yet he will die.”

Bosambo took the stick without a word, and placed it in a little bag which hung at his waist.

“This you will do in fear of the Silent Ones, who are merciless.”

“This I will do,” said Bosambo gravely.

No more was said, the two men parting without further speech.

Bosambo returned to his hut as the eastern sky went pearl-grey, as though a shutter of heaven had been suddenly opened. He was a silent man that morning, and not even Fatima, his wife, evoked the response of speech.

In the afternoon he caught a dog straying in the forest, and, dragging it to a place where none could see, he gave it meat. It died very quickly, because Bosambo had sprinkled the food with the powder which Tambeli had brought.

Bosambo watched the unpleasant experiment without emotion. When he had hidden all evidence of his crime he returned to the village.

At night-time came Sanders, and Bosambo, warned of the urgency of his visit, alike by lokali message, and the evident fact that Sanders was travelling by night, had a great fire kindled on the beach to guide the Zaire to land.

The little stern wheeler came slowly into the light; naked men splashed overboard and waded ashore with hawsers at their shoulders, and the boat was safely moored.

Then Sanders came. “I sit with you for one day,” he said, “being on my way to do justice.”

“Lord, my house is in the hollow of your hands, and my life also,” replied Bosambo magnificently. “There is the new hut which I built for you in the shadow of my house.”

“I sleep on board,” said Sanders shortly. “Tomorrow at dawn I am for the People-Who-Are-Not-All-Alike.”

They walked together through the village, Sanders to stretch his legs; Bosambo, as his host, from courtesy. The chief knew that eyes were watching him, because he had received an intimation that the Silent Ones awaited his report at no great distance in the forest.

They reached the end of the village and turned to stroll back.

“Lord,” said Bosambo, speaking earnestly, “if I say a thing to you which is of great moment, I beg your honour not to stand still in this place showing your anger.”

“Speak on,” said Sanders.

“If,” continued Bosambo, “there came from your ship when you sleep to-night news that you were in pain and nigh to death, I would save you a long journey.”

Sanders could not see his face, for the night was dark, and there was only a tangle of stars in the sky above to give light to the world.

“I know you to be a cunning man, Bosambo,” he said quietly; “and I listen to you without doubt. Now you shall tell why this is, and after I will do that which is best.”

“Lord,” said Bosambo quietly, “I am your man, and by all things which men swear by I am ready to die for you, and it seems likely that I shall die one way or the other. For though I vex you, and you have cursed me many times, yet I desire that I and all my house should die before you suffered pain.”

“That I believe,” said Sanders shortly.

“Therefore, lord, trust me without the palaver.”

“That I will do also,” said Sanders.

At five o’clock in the morning–as we count time–Bosambo went swiftly to the forest, taking with him a long-handled native spade. He reeled a little in his walk; the farther he got the more unsteady became his gait.

There was a clearing less than a mile along the forest path, a notable rendezvous for lovers in the soft hours of the evening, and by night the feeding place of devils.

To this spot Bosambo made his way; for this was the place where the Silent Ones awaited report. He came staggering into the clearing, his spade on his shoulder, and five men watching him from the shadows knew that he was drunk.

He came to a halt by the tree of the Weaver Birds, and sat down heavily. From the fold of his cloak he produced a bottle, and this he raised to his lips.

“Bosambo,” said Tambeli, coming noiselessly before him, “this is a good sight, for something tells me that you have done what should be done.”

“He was my father,” whined Bosambo, “and of my blood; he was a great lord, and now that he is dead the white people will come with the guns and say ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ and eat me up.”

He rolled his drooping head in misery.

“None shall know,” soothed Tambeli the strong one, “for here are we all, the five silent men of the good order, and no man knows but us–we say nothing.” He paused, and then added carefully: “So long as you do that which we bid, and send us tributes of women and corn.”

Bosambo heard this programme for his enslavement without visible sign of distress.

“Why have you brought the spade?” asked Tambeli suddenly; “you do not bury Sandi here?”

“Who knows?” said the listless Bosambo.

He took the bottle from his pocket. It was a small square bottle, in which liquor, such as gin, illicitly and secretly trafficked, comes to the backlands.

“This I will take,” said Tambeli. He reached out his hand and wrenched the bottle from the reluctant grasp of the other. “Men who drink spirits talk boastfully, and you shall not talk, Bosambo, till there are many rivers between me and Sandi’s soldiers.”

He took the little wooden stopper from the neck.

“Also,” he said, “it is a long time since ginni came to me.”

He waved his hand to his four shadowy companions.

“These are my brethren,” he said, “and yours; therefore, in the way of the white people of the coast, let us drink for happiness.”

He lifted the bottle and drank, then handed it to the man nearest him. One by one they took long draughts, then the bottle came to Bosambo.

“Tell me, did Sandi die in pain?” asked Tambeli.

“He died peacefully,” said Bosambo.

Tambeli nodded.

“That is the proper way,” he said, “for if he died with a great shouting there would come soldiers. Now none can say but that he died of the sickness Mongo.* There is no medicine like this, being prepared by a celebrated witch-doctor.”

[*Literally the True Sickness, i.e., any sickness which ends life.]

Bosambo said nothing for a while; then he spoke.

“Who is there to betray me?” he asked; “for if it comes to the ears of the High Lords at the Coast that I slew Sandi–“

“Have no fear,” said Tambeli, with a little cough, “for there are none but these”–he waved his hand unsteadily–“and–they–speak–never.” Indeed he spoke the truth, for the men were lying comfortably as though composing themselves for sleep.

“Up–up!” muttered Tambeli.

He went to kick the nearest sleeper, but his legs gave way, and he fell on his knees.

Bosambo watched him, deeply interested.

“Dog!”

Tambeli half turned his body toward the Chief of the Ochori, and spat out the word. He gathered all the great strength that was within him and leapt to his feet, launching himself straight at the other’s throat.

But Bosambo was prepared.

His left hand shot out, caught Tambeli’s shoulder, and half twisted him till he fell.

The man tried to rise, went down again, and soon he, too, fell asleep, uneasily at first, then calmly like a man tired.

Bosambo sat patiently.

After a decent interval, he looked round for the spade he had brought.

“Tambeli,” he said as he went about his business–a hard business, for the digging of a grave big enough for five men needs much muscular strength–“you were foolish, or you would know that no man of my faith slays his friend and patron. And no man of very high temperament sits in the shadow of death. Oh, Silent Ones, you are very silent now!”

He covered up his work and wiped his steaming forehead, standing irresolutely by the grave. Then he scratched his chin thoughtfully. He had an uneasy recollection of a mission-school a thousand miles away and of sad-eyed fathers who had taught him certain rituals.

He dropped the spade and knelt awkwardly.

“Blessed Marki and Luko and Johann,” he prayed, closing his eyes conventionally, “I have slain five men by poison, though they themselves took it without my invitation. Therefore they are dead, which is a good thing for us all.