Picked up after the raid and pursuit with a faceful of gravel, sand, dirt, and tetanus-germs, Moussa Isa, orphan, was flung on a pile of dead Somali spearmen and swordsmen, of horses, asses, camels, negroes, (old) women and other cattle—­and, crawling off again, received kicks and orders to clean and polish certain much ensanguined weapons sullied with the blood of his near and distant relatives.  Thereafter he was recognized by the above-mentioned swordsman, and accorded the privilege of removing his own father’s blood from the great two-handed sword before alluded to—­a task of a kind that does not fall to many little boys.  So willingly and cheerfully did Moussa perform his arduous duty (arduous because the blood had had time to dry, and dried blood takes a lot of removing from steel by one unprovided with hot water) that the Arab swordsman instead of blowing off the child’s head with his long and beautiful gun, damascened of barrel, gold-mounted of lock, and pearl-inlaid of stock, allowed him to rim for his life that he might die a sporting death in hot blood, doing his devilmost. (These were not slavers but avengers of enmity to the Mad Mullah and punishers of friendship to the English.)

“How much law will you give me, O Emir?” asked the child.

“Perhaps ten yards, dog, perhaps a hundred, perhaps more....  Run!”

“You could hit me at a thousand yards, O Emir,” was the reply.  “Let me die by a shot that men will talk about....”

“Run, yelping dog,” growled the Arab with a sardonic smile.

And Moussa ran.  He also bounded, shied, dodged, ducked, swerved, dropped, crawled, zig-zagged and generally gave his best attention to evading the shot of the common fighting-man whom he had propitiatorily addressed as “Emir,” though a mere wearer of a single fillet of camel-hair cord around his haik.  Like a naval gunner—­the Arab laid his gun and waited till the sights “came on,” fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the child fling up his arms, leap into the air and fall twitching to the ground.  Good shot!  The twitches and the last convulsive spasm were highly artistic and creditable to the histrionic powers of Moussa Isa, shot through the ear, and inwardly congratulating himself that he had yet a chance.  But then he had had wide opportunity for observation, and plenty of good models, in the matter of sudden-death spasms and twitches, so the credit is the less.  Anyhow, it deceived experienced Arab eyes at a hundred yards, and the performance may therefore be classed as good.  To the reflective person it will be manifest that Moussa’s reverence for the sanctity of human life received but little encouragement or development from the very beginning....

Returning refugees, a few days later, found Moussa very pleased-with himself and very displeased with uncooked putrid flesh.  Being exceedingly poor and depressed as a result of the Mad Mullah’s vengeful razzia, they sold Moussa Isa, friendless, kinless orphan, and once again cursed the false English who made them great promises in the Mahdi’s troublous day, and abandoned them to the Mad Mullah and his Dervishes as soon as the Mahdi was happily dead.