“They will be here to-morrow evening,” said the senior officer, thrusting a head round the mat.  “Ah, you are comfortable, eh?  Yes, I sent a messenger to Hassan’s camp by the vessel which brought you.  Rest well.”

“They are good fellows, these Arabs,” said Mr. Hume, with enthusiasm—­“good fellows.  I remember once——­”

“To-morrow night,” said the officer, as he withdrew, laughing.

Mr. Hume hummed cheerfully as he prepared for bed, taking no notice of his young comrades, who were regarding him with silent disfavour.  With one yawn after another he blew out the light, and struggled into his hammock, to fall asleep almost at once.

Venning’s uneasiness returned.  He tossed restlessly, listening to the unaccustomed noises from without, and as the hours went by, and at last the sound of talking about the fires died off in a lazy drone, the desire to see what had become of Muata was too strong to resist.  Softly he lowered himself to the earth-floor, but, soft as he moved, others had heard.

“Are the mosquitoes troublesome?”

Venning started at the deep voice so unexpected.  “I did not know you were awake, sir.”

“I sleep very lightly my boy.”

“As you are awake, sir, I would like to say——­”

But he stopped as the mat rustled.

“Come in,” said Mr. Hume.

“Me guard, great master”—­in the same soft, oily tones Venning had heard before.  “Hear noise.  Think may be thieves.”

“Mosquitoes, not thieves,” said Mr. Hume, quietly.  “Bring a light.”

The Zanzibar boy complied, and, holding a taper above his head, looked not for mosquitoes, but at the rifles in the corner.

“The skeeters, master,” he muttered, with an evil squint at Compton, who was blinking at the light.

“Better get back into your hammock, Venning.  You can go, boy; and keep a good watch, for we are coming to the thieves’ hour.”

The man showed his white teeth in a grin as he withdrew.

“Don’t stir from your hammocks until I do,” said Mr. Hume, very sternly, in a whisper; then louder, “Good night, Venning.”

“Good night, sir,” said Venning, convinced that the master was alive to the game, and more easy in his mind.

As he dropped off to sleep he heard the wail of a jackal, and next he was awakened by the sound of a native chanting.  It was already daybreak, and Mr. Hume stood on the verandah, having drawn the mats aside.

The sun, striking under the thatch, shone on the hunter’s tawny hair and beard, and Venning wondered how for a moment he could have doubted the courage of a man with such a lion-like head.  But he was to receive another shock.

“Silence, dog!” roared the hunter, addressing the singer, evidently.

Compton, who was sitting on his hammock dressing, looked out.

“By Jove,” he muttered, “he’s shouting at Muata!”

Venning jumped down to the floor and looked out.  Muata was still bound to the post, and, with his face to the sun, was chanting his words of greeting or of farewell in tones that lacked the deep chest-notes of his war-cry.