any rate, he had always deemed beyond suspicion; the man with
whom he would have entrusted his life, even as poor Inglefield had said
but an hour or two ago with regard to Nanzicele. Yet that fiend had
been the first to murder him in cold blood. In truth, one could trust
nobody. Little, therefore, was he surprised now when Pukele, turning to
him, joined the others in abusing and threatening him.

A bottle of whisky, half emptied, stood on the table, and another,
unopened, on the sideboard, together with two of "squareface." Most of
those present understood the corkscrew of civilisation, and in a few
moments were choking and gasping with the effects of their fiery
libations. As this unwonted indulgence began to take effect, the uproar
created by the murderous crew became simply indescribable. Plates and
dishes were smashed, glasses thrown at each other, and one of the
bottles with its precious contents was smashed. And foremost of all,
amid the madness of the riot, was Pukele--the quiet Pukele, the faithful
Pukele.

Already two of the murderers had rolled under the table dead drunk,
falling upon and clutching the gashed bodies of their victims. Others,
snatching up knives from the table, with reeling step and blood-lust in
their drunken faces, staggered towards their victim. But between the
latter and them, somehow, was always interposed the form of the faithful
Pukele, of the riotous Pukele, of the treacherous, murdering Pukele.

To John Ames it seemed that death's bitterness should already be past,
for whatever the method of it, death itself was sure. He knew he would
never leave that hut alive, and could almost have prayed that all were
over. Then his thoughts reverted to Nidia Commerell. How thankful he
was that she was in safety twelve hundred miles away. Would she feel
more than a transient sorrow or regret when she heard of his end? He
would have died at his post anyhow. And then he recalled the words of
flattering approval she had more than once uttered when expressing an
interest in his career. And that last long golden day they had passed
together. Well, even at this terrible moment he felt thankful he had
lived to go through that experience. But--what was this?

The strap which bound his right arm to that of the chair had snapped.
Snapped? No; it had been cut. The large form of Pukele stood in front
of him, was standing with his hands behind his back, and one of those
hands held a sword