It had a little stain near the rim.

Bosambo nodded, and M’laka leant forward and lifted the cup. But the ball was not there.

M’laka drew a deep breath, and swore by Iwa–which is death–and by devils of kinds unknown; by sickness and by his father–who had been hanged, and was in consequence canonised.

“It is the eye,” said Bosambo sadly; “as they say by the River, ‘The Ochori to see–“

“That is a lie!” hissed M’laka; “the Ochori see nothing but the way they run. Make this game again–“

And again Bosambo covered the red ball; but this time he bungled, for he placed the cup which covered the ball on an uneven place on the stool. And between the rim of the cup and the cloth there was a little space where a small ball showed redly–and M’laka was not blind.

“Bosambo,” he said, holding himself, “I wager big things, for I am a chief of great possessions, and you are a little chief, yet this time I will wager my all.”

“M’laka of the Isisi,” responded Bosambo slowly, “I also am a great chief and a relative by marriage to Sandi. Also I am a God-man speaking white men’s talk and knowing of Santa Antonio, Marki, Luki, the blessed Timothi, and similar magics. Now this shall be the wager; if you find a red ball you shall find a slave whose name is Bosambo of the Ochori, but if you lose the red one you shall lose your country.”

“May the sickness mango come to me if I do not speak the truth,” swore M’laka, “but to all this I agree.”

He stretched out his hand and touched the cup.

“It is here!” he shouted and lifted the cover.

There was no red ball.

M’laka was on his feet breathing quickly through his nose.

He opened his mouth to speak, but there was no need, for an Ochori runner came panting through the street with news; before he could reach the hut where his overlord sat and tell it, the head of Sanders’ column emerged from the forest path.

It is said that “the smell of blood carries farther than a man can see.” It had been a tactical error to kill one of Sanders’ spies.

The Commissioner was stained and soiled and he was unshaven, for the call of war had brought him by forced marches through the worst forest path in the world.

Into the open strode the column, line after line of blue-coated Houssas, bare-legged, sandal-footed, scarlet-headed, spreading out as smoke spreads when it comes from a narrow barrel. Forming in two straggling lines, it felt its way cautiously forward, for the Ochori city might hold an enemy.

Bosambo guessed the meaning of the demonstration and hurried forward to meet the Commissioner. At a word from Sanders the lines halted, and midway between the city and the wood they met–Bosambo and his master.

“Lord,” said Bosambo conventionally, “all that I have is yours.”

“It seems that you have your life, which is more than I expected,” said Sanders. “I know that M’laka, chief of the Lesser Isisi, is sheltering in your village. You shall deliver this man to me for judgment.”

“M’laka, I know,” said Bosambo, carefully, “and he shall be delivered; but when you speak of the chief of the Lesser Isisi you speak of me, for I won all his lands by a certain game.”

“We will talk of that later,” said Sanders.

He led his men to the city, posting them on its four sides, then he followed Bosambo to where M’laka and his headman awaited his coming–for the guest of a chief does not come out to welcome other guests.

“M’laka,” said Sanders, “there are two ways with chiefs who kill the servants of Government. One is a high and short way, as you know.”

M’laka’s eyes sought a possible tree, and he shivered.

“The other way,” said Sanders, “is long and tiresome, and that is the way for you. You shall sit down in the Village of Irons for my King’s pleasure.”

“Master, how long?” asked M’laka in a shaky voice.

“Whilst you live,” said Sanders.

M’laka accepted what was tantamount to penal servitude for life philosophically–for there are worse things.

“Lord,” he said, “you have always hated me. Also you have favoured other chiefs and oppressed me. Me, you deny all privilege; yet to Bosambo, your uncle–“

Sanders drew a long breath.

“–you give many favours, such as guns.”

“If my word had not been given,” said Sanders coldly, “I should hang you, M’laka, for you are the father of liars and the son of liars. What guns have I given Bosambo?”

“Lord, that is for you to see,” said M’laka and jerked his head to the terrifying tripod.

Sanders walked towards the instrument.

“Bosambo,” he said, with a catch in his voice, “I have in mind three white men who came to see the moon.”

“Lord, that is so,” said Bosambo cheerfully; “they were mad, and they looked at the moon through this thing; also at stars.”

He pointed to the innocent telescope. “And this they lost?” said Sanders.

Bosambo nodded.

“It was lost by them and found by an Ochori man who brought it to me,” said Bosambo. “Lord, I have not hidden it, but placed it here where all men can see it.”

Sanders scanned the horizon. To the right of the forest was a broad strip of marshland, beyond, blurred blue in the morning sunlight rose the little hill that marks the city of the Lesser Isisi.

He stooped down to the telescope and focused it upon the hill. At its foot was a cluster of dark huts.

“Look,” he said, and Bosambo took his place. “What do you see?” asked Sanders.

“The city of the Lesser Isisi,” said Bosambo.

“Look well,” said Sanders, “but that is the city you have won by a certain game.”

Bosambo shifted uncomfortably.

“When I come to my new city–” he began.

“I also will come,” said Sanders significantly. On the stool before the huts the three little wooden cups still stood, and Sanders had seen them, also the red ball. “To-morrow I shall appoint a new chief to the Lesser Isisi. When the moon is at full I shall come to see the new chief,” he said, “and if he has lost his land by ‘a certain game’ I shall appoint two more chiefs, one for the Isisi and one for the Ochori, and there will be sorrow amongst the Ochori, for Bosambo of Monrovia will be gone from them.”

“Lord,” said Bosambo, making one final effort for Empire, “you said that if M’laka gave, Bosambo should keep.”

Sanders picked up the red ball and slipped it under one cup. He changed their positions slightly.

“If your game is a fair game,” he said, “show me the cup with the ball.”

“Lord, it is the centre one,” said Bosambo without hesitation.

Sanders raised the cup.

There was no ball.

“I see,” said Bosambo slowly, “I see that my lord Sandi is also a Christian.”

“It was a jest,” explained Bosambo to his headmen when Sanders had departed; “thus my lord Sandi always jested even when I nursed him as a child. Menchimis, let the lokali sound and the people be brought together for a greater palaver and I will tell them the story of Sandi, who is my half-brother by another mother.”

The People of the River

2. THE ELOQUENT WOMAN

THERE was a woman of the N’Gombi people who had a suave tongue. When she spoke men listened eagerly, for she was of the kind peculiar to no race, being born with stirring words.

She stirred the people of her own village to such effect that they went one night and raided French territory, bringing great shame to her father; for Sanders came hurriedly north, and there were some summary whippings, and nearly a burying. Thereupon her father thought it wise to marry this woman to a man who could check her tongue.

So he married her to a chief, who was of the N’Gombi folk, and this chief liked her so much that he made her his principal wife, building a hut for her next to his. About her neck he had fixed a ring of brass, weighing some twenty-four pounds–a great distinction which his other wives envied.

This principal wife was nearly fifteen years old–which is approaching middle age on the River–and was, in consequence, very wise in the ways of men. Too wise, some thought, and certainly her lord had cause for complaint when, returning from a hunting expedition a day or two before he could possibly return, he found his wife more happy than was to his liking and none too lonely.

“M’fashimbi,” he said, as she knelt before him with her arms folded meekly on her bare, brown bosom, “in the days of my father I should bend down a stripling tree and rope your neck to it, and when your head was struck from your body I should burn you and he that made me ashamed. But that is not the law of the white man, and I think you are too worthless a woman for me to risk my neck upon.”

“Lord, I am of little good,” she said.

For a whole day she lay on the ground surrounded by the whole of the village, to whom she talked whilst the workmen sawed away at the brass collar.