Robertson had halted the oxen and jumping from the waggon-box strode forward and met Hans, who began to speak with him, twitching his hat in his hands.  Gradually as the tale progressed, I saw the Captain’s face freeze into a mask of horror.  Then he began to argue and deny, then to weep—­oh! it was a terrible sight to see that great man weeping over those whom he had lost, and in such a fashion.

After this a kind of blind rage seized him and I thought he was going to kill Hans, who was of the same opinion, for he ran away.  Next he staggered about, shaking his fists, cursing and shouting, till presently he fell of a heap and lay face downwards, beating his head against the ground and groaning.

Now I went to him and sat up.

“That’s a pretty story, Quatermain, which this little yellow monkey has been gibbering at me.  Man, do you understand what he says?  He says that all those half-blood children of mine are dead, murdered by savages from over the Zambesi, yes, and eaten, too, with their mothers.  Do you take the point?  Eaten like lambs.  Those fires your man saw last night were the fires on which they were cooked, my little so-and-so and so-and-so,” and he mentioned half a dozen different names.  “Yes, cooked, Quatermain.  And that isn’t all of it, they have taken Inez too.  They didn’t eat her, but they have dragged her off a captive for God knows what reason.  I couldn’t understand.  The whole ship’s crew is gone, except the captain absent on leave and the first officer, Thomaso, who deserted with some Lascar stokers, and left the women and children to their fate.  My God, I’m going mad.  I’m going mad!  If you have any mercy in you, give me something to drink.”

“All right,” I said, “I will.  Sit here and wait a minute.”

Then I went to the waggon and poured out a stiff tot of spirits into which I put an amazing doze of bromide from a little medicine chest I always carry with me, and thirty drops of chlorodyne on the top of it.  All this compound I mixed up with a little water and took it to him in a tin cup so that he could not see the colour.

He drank it at a gulp and throwing the pannikin aside, sat down on the veld, groaning while the company watched him at a respectful distance, for Hans had joined the others and his tale had spread like fire in drought-parched grass.

In a few minutes the drugs began to take effect upon Robertson’s tortured nerves, for he rose and said quietly,

“What now?”

“Vengeance, or rather justice,” I answered.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “vengeance.  I swear that I will be avenged, or die—­or both.”

Again I saw my opportunity and said, “You must swear more than that, Robertson.  Only sober men can accomplish great things, for drink destroys the judgment.  If you wish to be avenged for the dead and to rescue the living, you must be sober, or I for one will not help you.”