“Hans,” I cried, “take the men who were with you last night and try to lead those slaves round behind us.  Quick!  Quick now before we are stamped flat.”

Hans darted away, and presently I saw him and the two other men running towards the approaching crowd, Hans waving a shirt or some other white object to attract their attention.  At the time the foremost of them had halted and were screaming, “Mercy, English!  Save us, English!” having caught sight of the muzzles of our guns.

This was a fortunate occurrence indeed, for otherwise Hans and his companions could never have stopped them.  The next thing I saw was the white shirt bearing away to the left on a line which led past the fence of our boma into the scrub and high grass behind the camp.  After it struggled and scrambled the crowd of slaves like a flock of sheep after the bell-wether.  To them Hans’s shirt was a kind of “white helmet of Navarre.”

So that danger passed by.  Some of the slaves had been struck by the Arab bullets or trodden down in the rush or collapsed from weakness, and at those of them who still lived the pursuers were firing.  One woman, who had fallen under the weight of the great slave-stick which was fastened about her throat, was crawling forward on her hands and knees.  An Arab fired at her and the bullet struck the ground under her stomach but without hurting her, for she wriggled forward more quickly.  I was sure that he would shoot again, and watched.  Presently, for by now the light was good, I saw him, a tall fellow in a white robe, step from behind the shelter of a banana-tree about a hundred and fifty yards away, and take a careful aim at the woman.  But I too took aim and—­well, I am not bad at this kind of snap-shooting when I try.  That Arab’s gun never went off.  Only he went up two feet or more into the air and fell backwards, shot through the head which was the part of his person that I had covered.

The hunters uttered a low “Ow!” of approval, while Stephen, in a sort of ecstasy, exclaimed: 

“Oh! what a heavenly shot!”

“Not bad, but I shouldn’t have fired it,” I answered, “for they haven’t attacked us yet.  It is a kind of declaration of war, and,” I added, as Stephen’s sun-helmet leapt from his head, “there’s the answer.  Down, all of you, and fire through the loopholes.”

Then the fight began.  Except for its grand finale it wasn’t really much of a fight when compared with one or two we had afterwards on this expedition.  But, on the other hand, its character was extremely awkward for us.  The Arabs made one rush at the beginning, shouting on Allah as they came.  But though they were plucky villains they did not repeat that experiment.  Either by good luck or good management Stephen knocked over two of them with his double-barrelled rifle, and I also emptied my large-bore breech-loader—­the first I ever owned—­among them, not without results, while the hunters made a hit or two.