[42] Rhinoceros-hide whip.

An unpleasant death!  Without cowardice one might dislike the thought of having one’s throat cut while one’s hands were bound and one watched the blood gushing into an old army-ration tin.  Perhaps there would be none to gush—­and a good job too.  Serve them right.  Could he cut his wrists on a nail or a splinter or with the cords, and cheat them, if there were any blood in him now.  He would try.  Yes, an unpleasant death.  No one, no true Somali, that is, objected to a prod in the heart with a shovel-headed spear, a thwack in the head with a hammered slug, a sweep at the neck with a big sword—­but to have a person sawing at your throat with weak and shaking hands is rotten....

One quite appreciated that masters must eat and slaves must die, and the religious necessity for cutting the throat while the animal is alive, according to the Law—­and there was great comfort in the fact that the leader’s knife was inscribed with verses of the Q’ran and would probably be used for the job. (The leader liked jobs of that sort.) Countless it would confer distinction in Paradise upon one already distinguished as having died to provide food for a band of right-thinking, religious-minded gentlemen, who, even in such terrible straits, forgot not the Law nor omitted the ceremonies....

Where now was the fair-faced master who so resembled the English but was so much braver, fiercer, so much more staunch?  Though fair as they, and knowing their speech, he could not be of a race that led whole tribes to trust in them, called them “Friendlies” and then forsook them; came to them in the day of trouble asking help, and then scuttled away and deserted their allies, leaving them to face alone the Power whose wrath and vengeance their help-giving had provoked.  Yet there were good men among them—­there was Kafil[43] Bey for example.  Kafil Bey whose last noble fight he had witnessed.  If the fair-faced Sheikh had any of the weak English blood in his veins it must be of such a man as Kafil Bey.

  [43] Corfield?

Was he still swimming?  Had he been picked up?  Was he shark’s food?  To think that he should have come to his death over such a thing as a slave boy (albeit a Somali and no Hubshi).

This was an Emir indeed.

An idea!...  He called aloud:  “Are you there, Master?  The toni is loose and must be near,” again and again, louder and louder.  Perhaps he was following and would hear.  Again, louder still.

The one-eyed man, disturbed by the cry, stirred, threw his arms abroad, stretched, and put his foot on the mouth of a neighbour lying head-to-foot beside him.  The neighbour snored loudly and turned his face sideways under the foot.  He had slept standing jammed against the wall in the Idris of Omdurman, one of the most terrible jails of all time, and a huge foot on his face was a matter of no moment.

The Tanga tout suddenly emitted a scream, a blood-curdling scream, and immediately scratched his ribs like a monkey....  Moussa Isa held his peace.