Hassan rose and, to do him credit, came on like a man, head down.  His great skull caught Stephen, who was the lighter of the two, in the chest and knocked him over, but before the Arab could follow up the advantage, he was on his feet again.  Then ensued a really glorious mill.  Hassan fought with head and fists and feet, Stephen with fists alone.  Dodging his opponent’s rushes, he gave it to him as he passed, and soon his coolness and silence began to tell.  Once he was knocked over by a hooked one under the jaw, but in the next round he sent the Arab literally flying head over heels.  Oh! how those Zulus cheered, and I, too, danced with delight.  Up Hassan came again, spitting out several teeth and, adopting new tactics, grabbed Stephen round the middle.  To and fro they swung, the Arab trying to kick the Englishman with his knees and to bite him also, till the pain reminded him of the absence of his front teeth.  Once he nearly got him down—­nearly, but not quite, for the collar by which he had gripped him (his object was to strangle) burst and, at that juncture, Hassan’s turban fell over his face, blinding him for a moment.

Then Stephen gripped him round the middle with his left arm and with his right pommelled him unmercifully till he sank in a sitting position to the ground and held up his hand in token of surrender.

“The noble English lord has beaten me,” he gasped.

“Apologise!” yelled Stephen, picking up a handful of mud, “or I shove this down your dirty throat.”

He seemed to understand.  At any rate, he bowed till his forehead touched the ground, and apologised very thoroughly.

“Now that is over,” I said cheerfully to him, “so how about those bearers?”

“I have no bearers,” he answered.

“You dirty liar,” I exclaimed; “one of my people has been down to your village there and says it is full of men.”

“Then go and take them for yourself,” he replied, viciously, for he knew that the place was stockaded.

Now I was in a fix.  It was all very well to give a slave-dealer the thrashing he deserved, but if he chose to attack us with his Arabs we should be in a poor way.  Watching me with the eye that was not bunged up, Hassan guessed my perplexity.

“I have been beaten like a dog,” he said, his rage returning to him with his breath, “but God is compassionate and just, He will avenge in due time.”

The words had not left his lips for one second when from somewhere out at sea there floated the sullen boom of a great gun.  At this moment, too, an Arab rushed up from the shore, crying: 

“Where is the Bey Hassan?”

“Here,” I said, pointing at him.

The Arab stared until I thought his eyes would drop out, for the Bey Hassan was indeed a sight to see.  Then he gabbled in a frightened voice: 

“Captain, an English man-of-war is chasing the Maria.”

Boom went the great gun for the second time.  Hassan said nothing, but his jaw dropped, and I saw that he had lost exactly three teeth.