Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 11
And now four of the Amatongas emerged from the bush, bearing the nameless something, covered up with skins, but yet showing the outlines of the human form. Wyzinski shuddered as he opened his eyes and saw it. The pile of brushwood grew higher and higher, and the missionary felt himself rudely dragged along the ground, and fastened to the stake. The palmyra rope which cut into his flesh was removed, and his feet firmly tied apart to two small wooden pins driven into the ground. The hideous looking woman, who had been dancing and singing round him, waving her lean arms, and clashing together her long yellow teeth, now sat down right opposite the victim, her eyes intently fixed on his, to enjoy his agony. The last armful of brush was tossed upon the heap, fire was procured, and a long twisted wisp of dry grass lighted, and placed in the widow’s hands.
Chanting out a monotonous song, the woman rose and came on. She reached the wall of dry brush, she waved the wisp of flame in her victim’s face, scorching his hair and whiskers; then, with a yell of vengeance, stooped to kindle the fire, when a flash of light seemed to quiver through the sunshine, and she fell forward, pierced through the heart by an assegai, the torch falling from her dying hands, kindling the dry grass and brushwood.
In an instant the missionary was surrounded by a semicircle of flame, the reports of rifles rang in his ears, a loud shout of “Boarders, away!” came from among the trees, as half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, led on by Hughes, the Matabele chief, Masheesh, and Captain Weber of the “Halcyon,” dashed across the open, scattered the burning brush right and left, cut away his bonds, and dragged the half-choked missionary free of the flames.
Three of the Amatongas had fallen by the first discharge, and without halting to reload, the Portuguese charged with the bayonet, led by an old seaman, whose scar-seamed face told of some recent fight. It was Captain Mason, late of the “Argonaut.” The savages, wholly surprised, at once fled, but halting as they reached the belt of forest, threw their assegais. “Forward, my lads; no quarter for the accursed scoundrels!” shouted the excited Mason. “For—,” the word was never spoken, for an assegai struck him in the left eye, piercing to the brain. He fell heavily on his face, his clubbed rifle tumbling to the ground; a deep groan, one or two spasmodic struggles, and the captain of the “Argonaut” was no more, the whole band of savages having disappeared in the bush.
Lotus-Eating on the Zambesi
Startled from his deep sleep by the shout of the Amatongas, as they leaped into the clearing, the soldier had sprung to his feet, and possessing the faculty of instantly recovering his senses, when suddenly awoke, he at once comprehended his situation. Shouting to Wyzinski to join him, and whirling round his head the heavy knapsack held by the straps, he struck down the foremost savage: a second shared the same fate, but the leather straps broke with the blow. Springing on the third, Hughes grappled with his adversary, clutching the chief Matumba, for it was no other, fiercely by the throat—but he had met his match.
Matumba, short of stature, was yet a powerful man, and though partially stunned by the fall, and his heavy knobstick having dropped from his hands, he struggled manfully for life. The fire had been trampled out, the light of the stars was very feeble, and the two rolled over and over in the death struggle, none daring to meddle with them. A dozen dark, naked forms moved round them; the long knives gleamed in the starlight, but the Amatongas could not strike, so rapid were the movements of the two struggling men. At last, Matumba’s efforts seemed to grow weaker, the deadly grip tightened on his throat, and as he lay under him, Hughes buried his short dagger in the Amatonga’s side. Casting the body from him, with a superhuman effort, and without pausing for a moment, the soldier dashed through the circle, the savages striking at him with their knives.
Seizing his rifle as he fled, with one sweeping blow he drove back the foremost of his pursuers, and shouting to Wyzinski to follow, plunged into the bush. The ground ascended, the trees grew farther apart; he was on the verge of the forest; but one of the long knives had wounded him deeply in the left shoulder, and he was growing faint from loss of blood. Pausing to listen, he distinctly heard the crashing of the underwood. Was it Wyzinski following him? Listening attentively, he could distinguish the same noise to the right and left, and he then knew that the Amatongas, paralysed and astonished as they had been at first by the desperate nature of the resistance, had spread themselves out, and were bringing up the whole country before them on three sides, just as they did when hunting antelope. On the fourth ran the Zambesi. Moving rapidly forward, and determined to trust to the river rather than to the Amatongas, Hughes came to a nullah. Its banks were covered with brush, and the masses of convolvuli almost hid it in places. A sudden thought struck him. Jumping in, he followed its course until he came to a spot completely shut in by creepers and shrubs, then placing his rifle near him, he lay down. Minutes passed, the breaking of the bushes came near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the noises in the brush, and the cries passed on. Grey daylight came streaming between the leaves, the purple convolvuli opened their flowers, and the parrots and wild pigeons began to awake among the branches.
The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but he felt faint and nearly unable to move. Cautiously raising his head above the level of the bank, he glanced around. “All seems quiet. If I could only reach the river,” he muttered. “My mouth is dry and parched with thirst.”
Slowly and painfully he extricated himself from the bed of the nullah, and then, his rifle on his shoulder, followed its course.
It did indeed revive him, as he scooped up the waters of the Zambesi with his hands, and then, taking off his clothes, bathed the wounded shoulder in the cool river. What had become of his comrade was now his thought, and the idea of not ascertaining his fate for fear of personal consequences, never occurred to him. The sun would soon be up, the bees were just humming along the river banks, the patches of forest-land on the plain beyond the river looked black, in the grey dawn, and the stars were fast disappearing. He would take his way back to the clearing slowly, and cautiously. Just as he had stepped on the bank reinvigorated and refreshed, a noise struck his ears.
Turning towards the river, he leaned on his rifle, listening attentively. It was a fine broad stream the Zambesi, even here, before the Shire river pours its waters into it far below the fort of Senna; and as he looked down it, he again caught the noise distinctly.
“It is the steady pull of oars in the rowlocks,” he said, speaking aloud, unconsciously. “I cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I may find help.”
Concealing himself behind a bush, he waited. The sounds, whatever they were, became more and more distinct, and soon, slowly pulling against the stream, a boat drew clear of the bend of the river. Slowly it surged onward meeting the stream, urged on by the strokes of six rowers, the Portuguese flag streaming out from the stern, and a small carronade mounted in her bows. In the stern sheets sat a tall, upright figure, the tiller ropes in either hand, dressed in a monkey jacket, pilot cloth trousers, and a sailor’s cap. His long white hair streamed in the wind, and by his side a nearly naked savage. “Could he be mistaken? No,” said Hughes again, speaking aloud, “it is Captain Weber, and Masheesh has not deserted us. He was bringing aid, alas too late.”
“Boat ahoy!” shouted Hughes, as he stepped from behind the bush, waving his rifle in the air.
A loud shout came over the river; the next moment the skipper’s left hand gave the yawl’s bows a broad sheer towards the bank, and Masheesh and the old sailor were by his side. His tale was soon told. Not a moment was lost, and though they found the clearing empty, the spoor of the Amatonga was plain. Masheesh was sent forward to reconnoitre, the Portuguese soldiers were landed, and the result is known.
“And what is that over yonder, which I took for you?” asked the missionary.
Hughes rose from the spot where he had been sitting, the missionary’s hand in his; he stooped over the heap, and threw the skin aside.
“It is Matumba,” he said; “look at the mark of my grip on his throat, and the dark blood-stain on his side. He gave me trouble enough,” he continued, as he threw back the skins over the dead savage; “and his face with its starting eyeballs, and tongue hanging out of his mouth, is no pleasant sight. He was a treacherous savage, but died the death of a brave.”
“I don’t see,” said Weber, who now joined them, “that there is any reason why we should not pitch the bodies of these villains into the fire and have them consumed. It is more ship-shape than leaving them to the jackals.”
The thing was no sooner said than done, and the party made short work of it. The body of the captain of the “Argonaut” was carried down to the boat, and covered with the Portuguese ensign. Those of the Amatonga placed on the fire, which was burning fiercely.
“One, two, three, and yo heave ho!” shouted the sailors, as Matumba’s corpse was launched into the air, and fell with a heavy thud into the middle of the flames, sending up a shower of sparks. Fresh brush was heaped over it, and the whole was left burning.
“Poor Mason,” said Captain Weber, as the party moved off, “he never got over the loss of his ship. Of the whole crew, only yonder man now remains.”
“But what were you doing here on the Zambesi, Captain Weber, and how came you in company with Masheesh?”
The Matabele had been in great force, during the short engagement, and now with his long assegai dyed red with blood, stalked solemnly beside the missionary, who walked with great difficulty.
“It is easily explained. You will remember when you went over the ‘Halcyon’s’ side, I told you I had but a few months of my three years’ cruise, Captain Hughes,” replied the seaman, “and that I was bound for Quillimane.”
“Perfectly, and that you would give me a passage to England if I needed it,” answered Hughes. “I shall be glad to accept it, if you can land me at Delagoa Bay, Port Natal, or the Cape; for we two have nothing save our knapsacks and rifles now.”
“Avast there! Hear my tale first. It appears a special envoy has been sent out by the King of Portugal to report on this colony on the Zambesi. With his staff he has been for the last three months at Tété. The ‘Halcyon’ has been taken up for his passage home, and I am on my way to sign articles with Don Francisco di Maxara.”
“But that does not account for my seeing Masheesh at your side in yonder boat?” remarked Hughes.
“The Governor of the fort yonder was at Tété with his Excellency when the Matabele arrived, and told his tale. The Portuguese would not get under way without orders. Reaching Senna late last night, I heard of the affair, knew it must be you, and determined to send poor Mason on to sign articles, and guided by Masheesh to go to your help.”
A cordial grasp of the hand followed this.
“Why, you are burning with fever, my lad, and more fit for the sick bay than the jungle,” said Weber, looking into the soldier’s face.
“Shove off; give way, my lads; his Excellency must wait a wee,” continued the seaman, as the boat sheered down stream, and the men bending to their oars, the stout craft dashed down the Zambesi, heading for Senna.
Don Isidore Mujao, the commandant, met them at the landing place, greatly surprised at their speedy return, and still more so when he saw the use his Portuguese flag had been put to. About forty years of age; tall, dark complexioned, and sedate in manner, he welcomed the new comers, at the same time giving his orders to the men. Taking up the body of the late captain of the burned ship, six soldiers conveyed it to the little chapel, and during the pause, the new comers looked around them.
The fort was built of brick, and was in a very dilapidated condition. Situated on the right bank of the Zambesi, the river rolled its waters under the walls, and seemed a large stream, dotted with reed-covered islands.
“Captain Weber, you can spare your men a toilsome row; his Excellency will arrive either this night or to-morrow from Tété en route for Quillimane. Gentlemen,” continued the Portuguese, “you are welcome; you will meet with scant hospitality here, but we will do our best.”
Don Mujao took off his black broad-brimmed hat as he spoke, bowing low.
“Ay, ay, then I have not much time to lose. I say, Don,” exclaimed the sailor, “this is the Senhor Wyzinski, a missionary, on the loose, and whom we found in a fair way to make a grill for Davy Jones; look at his singed hair and whiskers; and this is an old friend, Captain Hughes, 150th Regiment, who looks half dead with fever.”
Again the formal Portuguese raised his hat, bowing first to one and then to the other.
“Roderigues,” he said, beckoning to a soldier who stood near, “show the Senhors to the only room we can give them. Once more I ask your consideration for our shortcomings, Senhors.”
“Come, make sail!” cried the skipper; “don’t be all day backing and filling here.”
The gate opened, then swung to again, as passing the Governor, who stood with his hat raised from his head, and preceded by the very questionable individual who had been called Roderigues, Hughes and the missionary, literally worn out with fatigue and excitement, the one wounded in the shoulder, the other his face blistered with burns, and hardly able to walk from the effects of the tightly bound palmyra rope, took their way up a narrow, winding staircase, turning out of a landing into a large room, lighted by two barred windows looking over the Zambesi and the plain beyond.
Two rude stretcher beds placed at opposite sides of the room, two large horse buckets, evidently intended for washing purposes, a coil of palmyra rope, to haul up water from the river below, and a couple of rude chairs, formed the furniture. The roof of the chamber was vaulted, and the floor was of red brick. Such was the room into which the soldier ushered the two travel-worn men, and to them it seemed a palace. Standing at attention as they passed, the Portuguese spoke some words in his own tongue, then closed the door with a clang. Placing their rifles against the wall, and throwing down the knapsacks which had been recovered, the missionary’s first act was to push the rude bolt, and offer up fervent thanks for the protection vouchsafed them during their late danger.
The water-buckets were put into use, the knapsacks rummaged, and then the two sat gazing in silence over the river.
“We must manage a passage with our friend, Weber,” said Wyzinski, at last.
“I don’t know how it is, I don’t feel any interest in anything,” languidly replied Hughes. “These shivering fits upset me. The fever has its hold of me.”
“I wonder whether they have any quinine? What a miserable, tumble-down set of wretched hovels these Portuguese have here. A town of thirty houses.”
“The country looks fertile, and the colony should prosper,” languidly returned Hughes, shivering heavily from head to foot, and his face flushing as he spoke. “Those are curiously-shaped sugar-loaf hills, the river flowing between us and them. The thick forest stretches beyond, and how beautiful the distant mountains seem.”
“Those are the hills of the Morumbala range, but what interests me more is yonder boat, swinging to her anchor. She is of English build, has a small cabin, and pulls eight oars. I should like to drop down the Zambesi to-morrow. There must be traders at Quillimane, sailing to Natal or the Cape.”
Here a prolonged, and painful shivering fit took possession of Hughes, gradually and rapidly increasing to such an extent, as soon to incapacitate him even from talking. That night the pulse was beating at a fearful pace, the temples throbbed nearly to bursting, and the terrible shivering fits shook his frame. The following day the brain was affected and the sufferer went once more through the scenes he had lately acted. The missionary dragged his cot to that of his sick comrade, and Captain Weber shared his watch, but the resources of the fort were very small, and but for his strong constitution the chances were against recovery.
The morning of the third day, there was a great bustle within the walls of the ruined fort. Weber came to say good bye. The Portuguese envoy had arrived from Tété, the agreement had been made, and the captain of the merchantman was to drop down the river that morning to finish his preparations.
Hughes was wandering, and did not know him. “It shall go hard but that you shall have your passage in the ‘Halcyon,’ if he can bear it,” said the skipper, the tears standing in his eyes as he pressed the missionary’s hand. “An hour of the fresh breeze of the Indian ocean would do more to cooper up yonder craft than all the rubbish in the world. He’s on his beam ends now, that’s sure; but may be he’ll be all a-tanto soon.”
A knock at the door, and Don Francisco Maxara entered; an elderly, grey-haired man, tall in stature, and stately in bearing.
“I cannot say it is a pleasure, Senhor,” began the old noble, as he bowed to the missionary, and made room for the merchant captain to pass, “but at all events it is a duty to place myself and all I have at your command.”
Boiling restlessly from side to side, his handsome features, bronzed by the sun, now flushed with fever, Hughes was unconscious of their presence. He was with his corps cheering on his men as he had cheered them on the plains of Chillianwallah, the day the gallant 10th Regiment melted away before the masked fire from the Sikh artillery, when gliding through the open door and passing her arm through her father’s, Dona Isabel de Maxara looked down on him.
Tall and graceful in figure, the girl’s face, was of that beautiful clear brown tint, found only in the sunny south, but one of the peculiarities which distinguished her was the network of blue veins, tracing themselves under the transparent olive of the skin; the eyes were large and intensely brilliant, shaded now by the long black lashes, which, with the slightly arched and beautifully pencilled eyebrow, told of Moorish blood. The mouth was small and beautifully cut, the lips parted now and showing the white teeth; and if there was a fault in the features, it was that the forehead, with all its lace-work of blue veins glancing under the clear olive skin, was too high and massive for a female face. The hair was brushed backwards, fastened behind by a large comb, tipped with gold, from which hung the long mantilla of Spain.
The sick man saw nothing of all this, he was busy among the guns at Chillianwallah.
“How long, Senhor,” said the girl, looking up at the missionary, and the large eyes filling as she did so with tears, which rolled one by one unheeded down her cheeks,—“how long has your friend been ill?”
“This is the third day, mademoiselle,” replied he, speaking in French, both father and daughter having used that language. “Have you any quinine, Senhor?” he continued, addressing the father.
“Yes, at your service; but not having had any before, what have you been using?” replied the noble, taking the sick man’s hands, and feeling his pulse.
“A drink made out of the kumbunga plant. It has cured me more than once.”
“Wait,” cried the girl, eager to be of use. “I will return in a moment,” and she flew out of the room, showing as she moved the beautiful foot and ankle peculiar to the Portuguese.
The old noble shook his head as he let the arm he held fall on the bed-clothes.
“There, use that at once,” said the breathless girl, as she returned with a small bottle filled with quinine. “And as soon as you can, get away from this terrible place.”
“We will leave now, my daughter; we are but in the way. Later on we may be useful. Command me, Senhor,” added the Portuguese; “whatever I have is at your service. I pray you do not spare me or mine.”
With a stately wave of the hand, as though he were quitting a palace, instead of a poor barrack-room in a dilapidated fort, the nobleman passed on.
“You will let me know,” said Isabel, pausing before she joined her father, and raising the large black eyes to the missionary’s face—“you will let me know how your poor friend is.” And with one more glance round the room, and at the wretched bed, she passed out.
Wyzinski stood looking at her. It seemed like a dream; but then there was the stoppered bottle of white powder in his hand to prove the reality. All that day, all that night, the missionary watched by the bedside. Towards midnight a heavy thunderstorm passed over the plains watered by the Zambesi. The air seemed blue with the forked lightning; the thunder rattled and roared over the fort, but the morning dawned calm and beautiful, and a cool breeze blew in at the open windows, bringing with it the sweet breath of the tamarind flowers. The quinine, too, had done its work; and the crisis which in the dreadful tertian fever of the Zambesi always occurs on the third day, had passed over favourably. These storms are of frequent occurrence in the land through which the Zambesi rolls its waters, and scarcely a week goes by without the thunder making itself heard round the dilapidated walls of Senna. Another of these periodical storms had just occurred, sweeping over the land, accompanied by torrents of rain, cooling the air, and refreshing the parched-up plains on the banks of the Zambesi. The river was high in consequence, rolling down branches and trees and quantities of driftwood past the brick walls of the crumbling fort. It has already been said that several small islands intersect the course of the river; and near one of these, not a stone’s throw from the water-gate, two boats were moored, swinging to the stream. The one a large European-looking pinnace—though really built on the Zambesi after an English model—possessed a covered cabin aft, and was capable of holding some twenty people. The other was of smaller and lighter mould. From the island came the sounds of laughter and conversation.
Under the trellised creepers, through which the rays of the afternoon sun were shining, sat a party of Europeans. The water was bubbling up in a stone basin; the purple grapes were hanging in rich clusters from the vines; and there, doing the honours of the table with a gentle grace which showed a practised ease and knowledge of the world, sat Dona Isabel Maxara. Near her, half sitting, half reclining on some cushions, Captain Hughes seemed lost in contemplation of the fair girl. Still very weak, and much pulled down by the short but sharp attack of the deadly tertian, he had got it into his head that the quinine had saved his life; and perhaps it was not a very unpleasant thing to be beholden for life to so fair a physician. And so he gazed on the tall, graceful, and beautifully-turned figure, the head carried with that dignified swan-like movement peculiar to Spain and Portugal, the long black lace veil now thrown back and floating behind. The clear olive complexion was well set off by the crimson lips of the well-cut mouth, and the large coal black eyes, with their long lashes, well matched by the luxuriant tresses of jetty hair. As she rose to carry the small cup of coffee to the invalid, he certainly thought the life it pleased him to consider she had saved, could not have a better use than devotion to her; and when the fair Isabel stooped over the young soldier, and one long tress, of the raven hair touched his hand, raised to receive the cap, the rosy flush flew up into a cheek once browned by exposure, but paled now by illness.
At a table close by, the Portuguese envoy, Dom Francisco Maxara, sat playing at chess with the Commandant of Senna; the two, wholly absorbed in their game, exchanging a word only at intervals. The missionary was unpacking, showing, and repacking, the various skins and small animals he had managed to secure. The birds were singing in the bushes round about, and above all came the buzz of insect life, and the ceaseless roll of the broad Zambesi.
The soldier lay back on the cushions sipping his coffee, his eyes half shut, a pleasant feeling of indolence enervating his frame, as he gazed. “She is very lovely,” he muttered; “and here am I, a captain of a marching regiment, allowing myself to fall in love with the daughter of a Portuguese grandee, whom I shall probably never see again.”
“And this,” continued Wyzinski, who seemed to have monopolised the conversation, “is it not a beautiful skin? Do you remember, Hughes, shooting this wild cat in the tree the morning of that terrible day among the Amatongas?”
“Indeed,” replied the other, “I am little likely to forget it. I shall always think it was the excitement, and the prostration consequent on the hunt, which so nearly consigned me to an African grave.”
“Tell me the tale,” cried Isabel. “I long to hear your adventures among the tribes of the interior. It seems so strange for us to meet here on this great African river.”
The conversation was carried on in French; and the soldier told of their travels; told how the baboon had first been found; how it had lived in the camp, and how it had died. The chess-players were disturbed by the silvery peals of laughter which rang round them as Hughes related, with some humour, the incident of the powder-flask; and Dona Isabel’s dark eyes had been fixed for a long time on the speaker’s face ere the tale was finished, and the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars peeping out, while the fire-flies came floating around, and the cool puffs of the sea breeze swept across the river.
“Sing for us, Isabel,” said Dom Francisco, as he checkmated his antagonist, at the same time rising and making him a stately bow.
Dona Isabel took her guitar, and the sweet tones of her voice rang out among the trellised vines and over the broad river, dying away on the plains beyond, where the howl of the jackal was just making itself heard.
“You will give me my revenge, Senhor Maxara,” asked the Commandant.
“Nay, Dom Isidore, not possible—at least, until you do me the high honour of becoming my guest in our own land. We must leave to-morrow evening.”
“And the Dona Isabel,” asked Mujaio. “Is she, too, in such a hurry to leave Senna?”
“The Dona Isabel must abide by her father’s decision,” she replied; “but she may have a word to say to Dom Maxara on the subject.”
Rising, Isabel took her father’s arm, and leading him towards the river side, seemed to urge something, to which he would not consent.
“Impossible, Isabel; wholly so. The brig is an English trader, bound for the Cape, and takes us only as passengers. Her captain cannot delay beyond the stipulated day; but come, we will do our best.”
“My daughter, Dom Isidore has been urging our stay at Senna for some days longer, but I am forced to say nay. You, gentlemen,” continued the ceremonious old noble, bowing first to the missionary, then to the soldier, “seek to return to the Cape; will you so far honour my daughter and myself as to accompany us?”
The soldier’s face flushed with pleasure. It was just what he could have desired. Wyzinski courteously declined, urging that they must wait until the “Alert” gun brig should touch at Quillimane, as they were without funds, and unable to pay their passage to the Cape.
A stately wave of the hand from Dom Francisco followed this matter-of-fact declaration, which wounded the soldier to the quick. He almost hated Wyzinski, and yet the determination had been come to that morning, on hearing of the advent of the “Alert.”
“The brig ‘Halcyon’ waits us at Quillimane,” persisted the noble. “She is chartered by my government to convey me, its envoy, to the Cape, and can take no passengers, but is bound to receive my suite and guests. Will the senhors honour us by becoming the latter?”
“And you may, indeed, help us,” interposed Isabel, fixing her dark eyes on the missionary. “What shall we do on board an English brig, with no one to understand us. But will not the senhor be too weak if we leave to-morrow?”
As she stood there, with the stars shining upon her, and the fire-flies playing like an aureole round her head, it occurred to Hughes that he was strong enough to follow her anywhere. The missionary looked at him inquiringly.
“Every day will bring me strength,” he replied; “and I shall be very glad to get to the sea once more. Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara, I accept your kind and generous offer, with many thanks.”
“And I also,” joined in Wyzinski.
“Then, Senhor Commandant, we will start to-morrow evening. I shall leave my staff here until the surveys, estimates, and plans be completed, and you shall have your revenge when you come home.”
“All shall be in readiness,” replied Mujaio, as he took a whistle from his neck, and sounded a shrill call. A boat shot across the stream from the fort; the noise of the oars straining in the rowlocks was heard, and the bowman jumped ashore, holding the boat’s painter in his hand.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” said the noble. “I shall have much business to transact with the Senhor Commandant to-morrow, and may not see you. My daughter, Dona Isabel, will hope to have that pleasure in my absence. The smaller of the two boats allotted us you will look upon as yours.”
Moving towards the river, his daughter on his arm, the stately Portuguese took off his broad-brimmed hat most courteously. Senhor Mujaio followed, having first handed the missionary the silver whistle.
“When you require the boat you have only to use this. Good-night, gentlemen.”
