The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ was escorted into the territory by a great army and was lodged in the city of the king. After two days’ waiting he was informed that his Majesty would see him, and was led to the Presence.

      The Presence was an old man, a vicious old man, if Sanders was any judge of character, who showed unmistakable signs of anger and contempt when the Commissioner displayed his presents.

      “And what are these, white man?” said the king. “Toys for my women, or presents for my little chiefs?”

      “These are for your Greatness,” said Sanders quietly, “from a people who do not gauge friendship by the costliness of presents.”

      The king gave a little sniff. “Tell me, white man,” he said; “in your travels have you ever seen so great a king as I?”

      “Lord king,” said Sanders, frank to a fault “I have seen greater.”

      The king frowned, and the crowd about his sacred person muttered menacingly.

      “There you lie,” said the king calmly; “for there never was a greater king than I.”

      “Let the white man say who is greater,” croaked an aged councillor, and a murmur of approval arose.

      “Lord,” said Sanders, looking into the eyes of the old man who sat on the throne, “I have seen Lo Ben.” [Lo Bengola, the King of the Matabele — EW] The king frowned again, and nodded.

      “Of him I have heard,” he said; “he was a great king and an eater-up of nations — who else?”

      “King,” lied Sanders, “also Ketcewayo”; and something like a hush fell upon the court, for the name of Ketcewayo was one that travelled north.

      “But of white kings,” persisted the chief; “is there a white king in the world whose word when it goes forth causes men to tremble?” Sanders grinned internally, knowing such a king, but answered that in all his life he had never met such a king.

      “And of armies,” said the king, “have you ever seen an army such as mine?” And so through the category of his possessions he ran; and Sanders, finding that the lie was to save himself a great deal of trouble, lied and acclaimed King Limbili as the greatest king in all the world, commander of the most perfect army, ruler of a sublime kingdom.

      It may be said that the kingdom of Yitingi owed its integrity to its faults, for, satisfied with the perfection of all his possessions, the great king confined his injustices, his cruelties, and his little wars within the boundaries of his state. Also he sought relaxation therein.

      One day, just after the rains, when the world was cool and the air filled with the faint scent of African spring, Sanders made a tour through the little provinces.

      These are those lands which lie away from the big rivers. Countries curled up in odd corners, bisected sharply on the map by this or that international boundary line, or scattered on the fringe of the wild country vaguely inscribed by the cartographer as “Under British Influence.” It was always in interesting journey — Sanders made it once a year — for the way led up strange rivers and through unfamiliar scenes, past villages where other white men than Sanders were never seen. After a month’s travel the Commissioner came to Icheli, which lies on the border of the great king’s domain, and with immense civility he was received by the elders and the chiefs.

      “Lord, you have come at a good moment,” said the chief solemnly, “tonight Daihili dances.”

      “And who is Daihili?” asked Sanders.

      They told him; later they brought for his inspection a self-conscious girl, a trifle pert, he thought, for a native.

      A slim girl, taller than the average woman, with a figure perfectly modelled, a face not unpleasant even from the European standpoint, graceful in carriage, her every movement harmonious. Sanders, chewing the end of his cigar, took her in at one glance.

      “My girl, they tell me that you dance,” he said.

      “That is so, master,” she said; “I am the greatest dancer in all the world.”

      “So far I cannot go,” said the cautious Commissioner; “but I do not doubt that your dancing is very wonderful.”

      “Lord,” she said, with a gesture, “when I dance men go mad, losing their senses. Tonight when the moon is high I will show you the dance of the Three Lovers.”

      “Tonight,” said Sanders briefly, “I shall be in bed — and, I trust, asleep.” The girl frowned a little, was possibly piqued, being a woman of fifteen, and in no wise different to women elsewhere in the world. This Sanders did not know, and I doubt whether the knowledge would have helped him much if he did.

      He heard the tom-tom beating, that night as he lay in bed, and the rhythmical clapping of hands, and fell asleep wondering what would be the end of a girl who danced so that men went mad.

      The child was the chief’s daughter, and at parting Sanders had a few words to say concerning her.

      “This daughter of yours is fifteen, and it would be better if she were married,” he said.

      “Lord, she has many lovers, but none rich enough to buy her,” said the proud father, “because she is so great a dancer. Chiefs and headmen from villages far distant come to see her.” He looked round and lowered his voice. “It is said,” he whispered, “that the Great One himself has spoken of her. Perhaps he will send for her, offering this and that. In such a case,” said the chief hopefully, “I will barter and bargain, keeping him in suspense, and every day the price will rise—”

      “If the Great One need her, let her go,” said Sanders, “lest instead of money presents he sends an army. I will have no war, or women palaver, which is worse than war, in my country — mark that, chief.”

      “Lord, your word is my desire,” said the chief conventionally.

      Sanders went back to his own people by easy stages. At Isisi he was detained for over a week over a question of witchcraft; at Belembi (in the Isisi country) he stopped three days to settle a case of murder by fetish. He was delivering judgement, and Abiboo, the Sergeant of Police, was selecting and testing his stoutest cane for the whipping which was to follow, when the chief of the Icheli came flying down the river with three canoes, and Sanders, who, from where he sat, commanded an uninterrupted view of the river, knew there was trouble — and guessed what that trouble was.

      “Justice!” demanded the chief, his voice trembling with the rage and fear he had nursed, “justice against the Old One, the stealer of girls, the destroyer of cities — may death go to him. Iwa!—” The very day Sanders had left, the messenger of the great king had come, and with him a hundred warriors, demanding the dancing girl. True to his prearranged scheme, the chief began the inevitable bargaining over terms. The presents offered were too small. The girl was worth a hundred thousand rods — nay, a thousand bags of salt.

      “You were mad,” said Sanders calmly; “no woman is worth a thousand bags of salt.”

      “Well, that might be,” admitted the outraged father; “yet it would be folly to begin by naming a price too low. The bargaining went on through the night and all the next day, and in the end the envoy of the great king grew impatient.

      “Let СКАЧАТЬ