front of him the
lieutenant was in a boiling rage, and the floor of the court was
actually crowded by prone natives being beaten. Extra askaris had been
sent for in order that proceedings might not be delayed, and the
audience could scarcely hear the evidence and sentences because of the
crack of whips and the moans of victims. (Not that they all moaned by
any means. By far the most of them submitted to the torture in grim
proud silence: but the few who did make a noise--especially the
women--made lots of it.)

As Kazimoto faced the lieutenant he turned once and looked at us. His
eyes sought Fred's.

"Oh, bwana!" he said--and now for the first time we learned why he had
chosen Fred to be his particular master. "I have been faithful!
Stroke, then, that beard of yours as Bwana Courtney, my former master,
used to stroke his. Then we shall both know what to do!"

Fred stroked his beard promptly, for the man needed comfort, not
ridicule: but the concession to his superstition did none of us any
good.

"Face this way!" the lieutenant shouted at him. "You are charged with
being a deserter from German service. Also with giving information to
foreigners. Also with serving foreigners in their effort to exploit
the country, and with refusing to give proper answers when questioned
by those in authority. Do you understand?"

"No," said Kazimoto in the most melancholy tone I ever heard from him.

"Are you a Nyamwezi? Now don't dare to lie to me!"

"Yes."

"You were born in this country?"

"Yes."

"Then you belong in this country!"

"I belong where my master takes me. My spirit is good. I am a true
man," Kazimoto answered.

"Your spirit is rotten! You are a traitor! What do you mean by
talking to me of your master, you reptile! Your master is the German
government, of which His Majesty the Kaiser is supreme overlord! There
is a picture of your master!" He pointed with a thumb over his
shoulder to the full-length atrocity in oils behind him. "Salute it!"

The boy obeyed.

"Answer now! Who is your master?"

Kazimoto hesitated.

"Answer, I order you!"

He turned and pointed a finger at Fred, who nodded.

"That English bwana is my master," he said stoutly. It was a forlorn
hope, though. He did not seem to believe that the statement of fact
would do him any good.

Fred jumped to his feet.

"That is perfectly correct," he said in English. "The boy is my
servant, engaged on British territ