rinning in
anguished distortion, being those of the slave-hunters, who had been put
to death in batches. And now their leader, the famous and terrible
Mushad, was the last.

There was the usual roaring outburst of _sibonga_ as the King appeared
and took his seat. There were the executioners, savage-looking and
eager, and then--the last of the slave captives was dragged forward.

Heavens! what was this? The bowed and shrunken figure, palsied and
shaking, was that of an old, old man. The snow-white hair and ragged
beard, the trembling claws and the blinking watery eyes--this could
never be Mushad, the keen-eyed, haughty, indomitable Arab of middle age
and iron sinewy frame, whom they had last seen, here on this very spot,
hurling defiance at his captors in general and at the King in
particular. No--no, such a transformation was not possible.

But it was. Ill-treatment, starvation, torture had reduced the once
haughty, keen-spirited Arab to this. Where he had defied, now he
cringed. Yet no spark of ruth or pity did his miserable plight call
forth in those who now beheld him. Brutal jeers were hurled at him.
They had come to see him die in torments. They had looked forward to it
from day to day. They were not to be baulked now.

Of all this Haviland was aware, and an intense pity arose in his heart
as he gazed upon the miserable wreck. He had thought he knew what
savages really were, but now realised that it was reserved for the
Inswani to teach him.

"Ho! Mushad, my dog!" jeered the King, in his deep voice. "Thou who
namedst thyself the scourge of the world. Why, I think the meanest
slave thou hast ever sold would crack his whip over thee now."

"Look yonder," went on Umnovunovu. "Thou seest those four poles? Good.
Thou wilt be tied to those by an ankle and wrist to each, half a man's
height from the ground, with fire beneath thee, and for a whole day thou
shalt rest upon a warm blanket, I promise thee."

The two Englishmen shuddered with horror as they saw what was to happen.
The miserable slave-hunter was to be slowly roasted to death. Then
Haviland spoke, as he admitted to himself, like a fool.

"Spare him, Great, Great One. Spare him the torture. See, he has
undergone enough. Put him to the swift death of the sword."

The King's face was terrible to behold as he turned it upon the
interruptor; no less terrible as they beheld it was the roar of rage
that went up from the spectators.

"Wi