or in
the case of an attack they would never regain the fort. The moon sank as
if reluctantly, seeming to hesitate upon the fringe of banana fronds at
something that she alone could see. But the night creaked slowly on.
Schultz knew that the favourite hour for an attack was just at the first
glimmer of dawn when the spirits are making for their homes and the light
is deceptive.

He was standing in front of the Nordenfeldt when a sentry's keener ears
caught a peculiar whispering rustle. As Schultz turned his head to listen,
the whisper grew in volume to the sound of a hail-storm--the patter of bare
feet on sand. Faint light on spears rippled round the base of the hills.
Schultz sprang inside the barrier barking at his men to open fire. He
deflected the muzzle of his gun and began pumping nickel into the
advancing mass of yelling figures.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}

The rush carried the fort; for the defenders were out-numbered by fifty to
one. Schultz fell under a dozen spear thrusts. The askaris were massacred
to a man before the sun rose inquiringly beyond the sacred hill of Kawa
Kendi.

When all the bloody acts of war were done and the triumphant yelling
quietened, there came from across the river a pulsing trickle of sound in
the sizzling heat, which was answered by a thundering crash of spear
against shield and the "Ough! Ough!" of three thousand warriors gathered
upon the hill to do homage to the Unmentionable One.

Across the river, at the ford where Bakuma had sung her swan song, came
the procession led by the craft in full panoply. In the van stalked
Bakahenzie, grave and solemn as befitted the high priest. Around him
capered with untiring energy a group of lesser wizards whose duties were
as those of professional dancers, having dried bladders and magic beads
fastened to their ankles and wrists. Then behind Marufa a litter was borne
by sacred slaves doomed to perish after performing their holy office, in
which, swathed entirely from the public gaze, was Usakuma, the Incarnation
of the Unmentionable One. In another litter, as securely screened, was the
son of the Lord-of-many-Lands, endeavouring to endure a perpetual bath of
sweat in the sacred cause, peeking professorial eyes through the
interstices, scribbling in a notebook. Behind again marched Mungongo
bearing a smouldering brand of the Sacred Fire; then Yabolo, reinstated in
office for a reason that any politician will understand. After him came
more litter