It was like the knell of their last hope, for had he not told them
that he was fetish, that his body was proof against those wicked
fires and that if the white men came, he himself would slay them!
And now he was dead! The last barrier of their superstitious hope
was broken down. Even the drunken King sat up and made strange
noises.
Trent stooped down and, picking up the knife, cut the bonds which
had bound the boy. He staggered up to his feet with a weak, little
laugh.
"I knew you'd find me," he said. "Did I look awfully frightened?"
Trent patted him on the shoulder. "If I hadn't been in time," he
said, "I'd have shot every man here and burned their huts over
their heads. Pick up the knife, old chap, quick. I think those
fellows mean mischief."
The two warriors who had stood by the priest were approaching, but
when they came within a few yards of Trent's revolver they dropped
on their knees. It was their token of submission. Trent nodded,
and a moment afterwards the reason for their non-resistance was
made evident. The remainder of the expedition came filing into the
little enclosure.
Trent lit a cigar and sat down on a block of wood to consider what
further was best to be done. In the meantime the natives were
bringing yams to the white men with timid gestures.
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