“Now remember that if you are down there, and have to run, you are to make for that palm, ascend here, and cut along to the gorge.  Have you got that fixed?  Good.  Now we will go back.”

At last, with their feet dangling over the edge of the ledge before the cave, they were at liberty to satisfy their longing to take their fill of the beauty outspread before them.  Perhaps it was by contrast with the monotony of the forest that the scene below them seemed to them all to be the most beautiful that had ever gladdened the eyes of men.  Imagine a valley about five miles in length, narrowing at each end, and opening out about the centre to a width of two miles, the sides of grass sloping up to a buttress of rock, and rippling along the whole length into folds, with little valleys in between—­narrow at the summit, where they joined the rock-wall, and wide at the base, where they opened out on the parent valley, through which flowed a broad stream, fringed its whole length with a border of pale green banana-leaves with stems of gold.  In the little valleys were gardens, showing up like a chessboard pattern in neat patches of green, red, and brown, according to whether there was ripening millet, young maize, or new-turned mould.  Halfway down the valley was a village of beehive-shaped huts, with an open space in the centre, adorned with one fine tree, under whose spreading branches they could see distinctly the forms of men.  In the strong white light every object could be easily picked out—­goats browsing among the rocks at the base of the cliffs; flocks of birds circling above the gardens; fowls walking among the huts; tiny little black forms toddling in the sun, and their mothers squatting with their faces turned to the council tree.

“No women in the gardens,” said Mr. Hume, “and that always means war.”

Venning readjusted his glasses.  “There is something I can’t quite make out at the back of the village.  Looks like men lying down.”

Mr. Hume took the glasses and turned them on the spot.  “Humph!” he muttered, while his brow clouded.  “They are dead men.”

“Five,” said Compton.

“Yes, five.  Muata has been at work!”

“Muata?  He was sitting here quietly eating last night.”

“Maybe it was either he or they, and he happened to be first to strike.”

“It is awful!” muttered Venning.

The discovery destroyed their pleasure in the gentle beauty of the scene below, and they fell to discussing Hassan’s probable plan of attack, arriving at the conclusion that the chances of success were with him, when they contrasted his force with the small band of men down below.

“While they are talking,” said Compton, “Hassan will be seizing the best positions.  Why on earth don’t they do something?”

“Perhaps they are at work already,” said Mr. Hume.  “There is a small party coming down the valley from the left.  Muata said something about Hassan’s determination to drown the people of the valley.  He could only flood the valley by damming the stream at its outlet, which would lie to the left, and I guess those men have been seeing to the defence.”