All the benches were crowded with spectators, prisoners, witnesses, and litigants.  Outside, at least two hundred Arabs, Indians, and natives leaned with elbows on the wall and gazed at the scene within.  The lieutenant glared, but otherwise took no notice of our entry; he gave no order, but one of the two sergeants came down from the platform and kicked half a dozen natives off the front bench to make room for us.

We were mistaken in supposing our case would be called first, or even among the first.  The floor in the midst of the court was clear except for a long single line of natives and six askari corporals, each with a whip in his hand.  It was evident at once that these natives were all ahead of us, even if those on the benches were not to be heard and dealt with before our turn came.

“Look at the far end of the line!” whispered Fred.

Lo and behold Kazimoto, looking rather drawn and gray, but standing bravely, looking neither to the right nor left.  I judged he knew we were in court—­he could hardly have failed to notice our coming in—­but he sturdily refused to turn his head and see us.

“What has he done?” I wondered.

“Nothing more than told some Heinie to go to hell—­you can bet your boots!” said Will.

The lieutenant was in no hurry to enlighten us.  Our boy stood at the wrong end of the line to be taken first.  The lieutenant called a name, and two great askaris pounced on the trembling native at the other end and dragged him forward, leaving him standing alone before the desk.

“Silence!” the lieutenant shouted, and the court became still as death.

He had a voice as mean as a hyena’s—­a voice that matched his face.  The insolent, upturned twist of his fair mustache showed both corners of a thin-lipped mouth.  He had the Prussian head, shaped square whichever way you viewed it.  There was strength in the jaw-bones—­strength in the deep-set bright eyes—­strength in the shoulders that were square as box-corners without any padding—­strength in the lean lithe figure; but it was always brute strength.  There was no moral strength whatever in the restless fidgeting—­the savage winding and unwinding of his left foot around the saber scabbard, or the attitude, leaning forward over the table, of petulant pugnacity.  And the cruel voice was as weak as the hand was strong with which he rapped on the table.

He questioned the boy in front of him sharply—­told him he stood charged with theft—­and demanded an answer.

“With theft of what thing, and whose thing?”

The answer was bold.  The trembling had ceased.  Now that he faced nemesis the strength of native fatalism came to his rescue, bolstering up the pride that every uncontaminated Nyamwezi owns.  He was not more than seventeen years old, but he stood there at last like a veteran at bay.

“Put him down and beat him!” ordered the lieutenant.