And while they rested in the afternoon, Muata came out of the gorge chanting his song of triumph at the head of the picked warriors who had gone down into the forest to hang on the trail of the wild men.

His song died away as his eye fell upon the still swollen river, on the sheen of pools gathered where the ground was flat, on the banks of debris showing the highwater mark far up the little side valleys.

“Greeting, Ngonyama!”

“And to you, chief.”

“My brothers have not slept.”  The young chief’s eagle-glance dwelt swiftly on the three friends.  “They have looked on great trouble.”

“You have come from victory, chief; your men are fresh.”

“Ohe! they are fresh, for the fight was short.”

“Then send some of them up the cliff on the other side, so that they may overlook the place where the river goes under.”

Muata looked down into the valley again, and asked the question which he had been burning to ask all the time, but could not for fear of showing anxiety.

“So Hassan has tried to drown out the valley?”

“The river rose and the river fell!  While he sent some men to attack the gorge, he found the river-gate unguarded, and seized it, blocked the course of the river with a great rock loosened from above, and then, as the water rose, lowered canoes on the inside, and sent his men forward to eat up your village.”

“Where was Ngonyama when the gates were unguarded?”

“In the caverns under the cliff.”

“Wow!”

“The wise woman led us there.  She left us there, fearing I, Ngonyama, would supplant you, her son; and on the second morning, when she found that Hassan was too cunning, she came with an offer of liberty if we would destroy his plan.  We told her the way.  It was to let the water in.”

“It was a good plan.  Haw!”

“She let the water in to save the people of the valley, and Hassan’s men were lost utterly; but the first victim was your mother, Muata.”

“It was a good death,” said Muata, after a long pause.

“Ay, it was a good death, chief.  Now send your men up the cliff, so that they overlook the river-gates.”

“I will see to it, Ngonyama;” and Muata went down with his band to the village once again, chanting the deep-chested song of victory.

The jackal, who had accompanied Muata on the new trail, remained with his white friends.  He was thin, he was famished, and he sat with his left front paw lifted.  Venning, who had a fellow-feeling for one in distress, being himself worn out, took the paw, discovered a nasty cut on the pad, washed it out with warm water, treated it with carbolic, bound it up, and gave the animal the pot to dean, which he did, polishing it out with his long red tongue.

The boy and the jackal stretched themselves on a kaross to the sun, while Mr. Hume and Compton went away off to make sure about the Okapi; for, as they said, they were in no mind to lose the boat, after all their exertions, just because they were a little tired.