tya warriors
beneath the tree-fern by the lagoon--and the murmur among the listeners
deepened.

"I was but one man, and they were twelve," he concluded. "Twelve of the
finest warriors in the world, even the warriors of the People of the
Spider. Yet they could not harm me, see you, Great Great One. They could
not prevail against the man who held--who wore the Sign of the Spider."

Now an emphatic hum arose on the part of all who heard--and indeed there
had been a silence that might be felt while he had been narrating his
tale. More than ever was Laurence convinced that in deciding to tell it
he had acted with sound judgment. He had little or nothing to fear from
the vengeance of the relatives of those he had slain--for he had seen
enough of these people to guess that they did not bear a grudge over the
fortunes of war--over losses sustained in fair and open fight. And, on
the other hand, he had immensely strengthened his own case.

"Yet, you made common cause with these foul and noisome _Izimu_,"[1]
said the king, shifting somewhat his ground. "These carrion dogs, who
devour one another, even their own flesh and blood?"

"I but spared one of their villages, O Great North Wind. For the rest,
how many have I left standing?"

"That is so," said Tyisandhlu, still gazing fixedly at his prisoner.
Then he signed the latter to retire among the warriors, and, turning,
gave a few rapid directions in a low voice to an attendant.

In the result, a group of armed warriors was seen hurrying forward, and
in its midst a man, unarmed--a man ragged and covered with dried blood,
and with his arms ignominiously bound behind him. And wild amazement was
in store for Laurence. He had reckoned himself the sole survivor of the
massacre. Yet now in this helpless and ill-treated prisoner he
recognized no less a personage than Lutali.

His body and limbs slashed with many spear-wounds--his clothing cut to
ribbons--his half-starved and filthy aspect--as he was hustled forward
into the king's presence, the Arab would have looked a pitiable object
enough but for one thing. The dignity begotten of high descent and
indomitable courage never left him--not for one moment. Weak as he was
with loss of blood and the pain of his untended and mortifying
wounds--the glance of his eyes, no less than the set of his keen,
hawk-like face, was as proud, as fearless, as that of the king himself.

"Down, dog!" growled the guards, flinging him forward on his fa