“And how far was the town from this harbour?”

“Quite close, Macumazana.”

Now Brother John asked a question.

“Did you hear anything about the land beyond the water by the cave?”

“Yes, Dogeetah.  I heard then, or afterwards—­for from time to time rumours reach us concerning these Pongo—­that it is an island where grows the Holy Flower, of which you know, for when last you were here you had one of its blooms.  I heard, too, that this Holy Flower was tended by a priestess named Mother of the Flower, and her servants, all of whom were virgins.”

“Who was the priestess?”

“I do not know, but I heave heard that she was one of those people who, although their parents are black, are born white, and that if any females among the Pongo are born white, or with pink eyes, or deaf and dumb, they are set apart to be the servants of the priestess.  But this priestess must now be dead, seeing that when I was a boy she was already old, very, very old, and the Pongo were much concerned because there was no one of white skin who could be appointed to succeed her.  Indeed she is dead, since many years ago there was a great feast in Pongo-land and numbers of slaves were eaten, because the priests had found a beautiful new princess who was white with yellow hair and had finger-nails of the right shape.”

Now I bethought me that this finding of the priestess named “Mother of the Flower,” who must be distinguished by certain personal peculiarities, resembled not a little that of the finding of the Apis bull-god, which also must have certain prescribed and holy markings, by the old Egyptians, as narrated by Herodotus.  However, I said nothing about it at the time, because Brother John asked sharply: 

“And is this priestess also dead?”

“I do not know, Dogeetah, but I think not.  If she were dead I think that we should have heard some rumour of the Feast of the eating of the dead Mother.”

“Eating the dead mother!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Macumazana.  It is the law among the Pongo that, for a certain sacred reason, the body of the Mother of the Flower, when she dies, must be partaken of by those who are privileged to the holy food.”

“But the White Devil neither dies nor is eaten?” I said.

“No, as I have told you, he never dies.  It is he who causes others to die, as if you go to Pongo-land doubtless you will find out,” Babemba added grimly.

Upon my word, thought I to myself, as the meeting broke up because Babemba had nothing more to say, if I had my way I would leave Pongo-land and its white devil alone.  Then I remembered how Brother John stood in reference to this matter, and with a sigh resigned myself to fate.  As it proved it, I mean Fate, was quite equal to the occasion.  The very next morning, early, Babemba turned up again.

“Lords, lords,” he said, “a wonderful thing has happened!  Last night we spoke of the Pongo and now behold! an embassy from the Pongo is here; it arrived at sunrise.”