lied himself with the "rebels." But over them, as well as every Wongolo
in and about the place, was a sullen air not of defiance but of expectant
listening.

In the mess hut a nervous Bakunjala prepared the table for dinner, the
whites of his eyes rolling at every sound of zu Pfeiffer's voice from the
marquee adjoining. Never in his experience, nor in that of other servants
or soldiers, had the demon so utterly possessed the dread Eater-of-Men as
since the receipt of some terrible magic sent to him by the white man.
Opinion was divided as to whether this white man was the one who had been
arrested and sent to the coast with Corporal Inyira or whether he was a
brother; some said that the magic leaf which the messenger had brought was
the soul of the white man, others maintained that it was the incarnation
of Bakra, which explained why the Eater-of-Men was so entirely possessed.
Had he not screamed? they demanded, which clearly proved, as everybody
knew, the dreadful agony as the ghost entered into the body.

Even the white sergeants were frightened of their chief. They had been
seen talking together secretly, doubtless discussing what medicine they
could give him to exorcise the demon. Had he not been commanded by this
demon to leave the safety of the fort where they had the guns on the
hills, and to go into the forest where, as anybody knew, their eyes would
be taken from them so that they could not see to kill the dogs of Wongolo?
They were all conscious, native-like, that something was brewing among the
Wongolo, but what it was exactly they did not know. Two men had had fifty
lashes that morning because they had not saluted the totem--flag--correctly;
and a Wongolo chief had been shot because he had not brought in the amount
of ivory commanded. None dared to warn the Eater-of-Men. Some one had said
that the "leaf" was the soul of the idol come to lead the Eater-of-Men to
destruction. This idea took deep root among the Wunyamwezi soldiers, for
although they had delighted in the slaughter and rapine under the
leadership of the Eater-of-Men, yet always had there been an uneasy
feeling of sacrilege in destroying an idol.

In the half of the marquee reserved for the Kommandant's private quarters
sat zu Pfeiffer in his camp chair with the inevitable stinger at his
elbow. Erect by the door stood Sergeant Schultz taking details for the
disposition of stores and troops during the absence of the punitive
expedition. Never had