quare; and under
a large sycamore in the centre was seated, on a dried mud platform,
raised two feet above the ground, and which ran around the tree like a
circular sofa, covered with kid and goatskins, and over these skins of
wild beasts, an old white-haired man, whom, by the deference paid to
him, the prisoners knew was King Katalambula.

The King had on his head a band of snowy white cloth, and his dress was
a long broad robe of crimson blanket cloth. He was a kindly-looking old
man, and he was evidently at the time being much amused with something
that a tall young lad of sixteen, or thereabouts, was saying; but as the
group of warriors guarding Simba and Moto entered the square, the old
man looked up curiously, and when they drew nearer he demanded to know
what the matter was.

"My sultan, my lord," said the principal man to whom we were first
introduced at the gate, "these men are suspicious characters. To every
question I asked them they replied with a he; wherefore we brought them
to you to judge."

"Speak, strangers, the truth. Who and what are ye?"

The quick eye of Moto had seen the young lad standing by Katalambula
when he entered, and he suspected that he was the object of his search,
the young friend of bygone years.

"Great king," said Moto, "I did lie; but to you I will give the truth.
I am a Mrori, who was taken when a child by the Arabs of Zanzibar.
Years after that time, when I was a man, I accompanied an Arab chief,
called Kisesa, to Unyanyembe; but soon after arriving, he declared war
against the Warori, and--"

"Kisesa!" said the young lad, advancing towards him with the stride of a
young lion. "War against the Warori!" he added again, with an angry
glitter in his eyes.

"Yes, young chief," said Moto, humbly; "and I accompanied Kisesa to this
war. After a long march we came before a Tillage near Ututa, governed
by--"

"By whom?" asked the young chief. "Tell me his name--quick, dog!"

"Mostana," said Moto, deliberately.

"Mostana!" shrieked the boy, and the word was echoed in a tone of
surprise by all.

"Yes, Mostana was his name," said Moto, unheeding the menacing looks or
the angry murmurs which arose from all sides, but hurrying on with his
story. "We took the village after a short time, though Mostana's men
fought well, and numbers of our people were killed. Mostana's men were
nearly all killed, and those who were left were made slaves, according
to the custom of the Arabs