Whilst he was speaking, Negoro had gradually drawn nearer to the prisoner, until their faces were almost in contact. Exasperated by Dick’s calmness, his countenance assumed an expression of the utmost ferocity, and at last he burst forth in a paroxysm of rage.
“It is my turn now! I am master now! I am captain here! You are in my power now! Your life is in my hands!”
“Take it, then,” said Dick quietly; “death has no terrors for me, and your wickedness will soon be avenged.”
“Avenged!” roared Negoro; “do you suppose there is a single soul to care about you? Avenged! who will concern himself with what befalls you? except Alvez and me, there is no one with a shadow of authority here; if you think you are going to get any help from old Tom or any of those niggers, let me tell you that they are every one of them sold and have been sent off to Zanzibar.”
“Hercules is free,” said Dick.
“Hercules!” sneered Negoro; “he has been food for lions and panthers long ago. I am only sorry that I did not get the chance of disposing of him myself.”
“And there is Dingo,” calmly persisted Dick; “sure as fate, he will find you out some day.”
“Dingo is dead!” retorted Negoro with malicious glee: “I shot the brute myself, and I should be glad if every survivor of the Pilgrim had shared his fate.”
“But remember,” said Dick, “you have to follow them all yourself;” and he fixed a sharp gaze upon his persecutor’s eye.
The Portuguese villain was stung to the quick; he made a dash towards the youth, and would have strangled him upon the spot, but remembering that any such sudden action would be to liberate him from the torture he was determined he should undergo, he controlled his rage, and after giving strict orders to the havildar, who had been a passive spectator of the scene, to keep a careful watch upon his charge, he left the dungeon.
So far from depressing Dick’s spirits, the interview had altogether a contrary effect; his feelings had undergone a reaction, so that all his energies were restored. Possibly Negoro in his sudden assault had unintentionally loosened his fetters, for he certainly seemed to have greater play for his limbs, and fancied that by a slight effort he might succeed in disengaging his arms. Even that amount of freedom, however, he knew could be of no real avail to him; he was a closely-guarded prisoner, without hope of succour from without; and now he had no other wish than cheerfully to meet the death that should unite him to the friends who had gone before.
The hours passed on. The gleams of daylight that penetrated the thatched roof of the prison gradually faded into darkness; the few sounds on the chitoka, a great contrast to the hubbub of the day, became hushed into silence, and night fell upon the town of Kazonndé.
Dick Sands slept soundly for about a couple of hours, and woke up considerably refreshed. One of his arms, which was somewhat less swollen than the other, he was able to withdraw from its bonds; it was at any rate a relief to stretch it at his pleasure.
The havildar, grasping the neck of a brandy-bottle which he had just drained, had sunk into a heavy slumber, and Dick Sands was contemplating the possibility of getting possession of his gaoler’s weapons when his attention was arrested by a scratching at the bottom of the door. By the help of his liberated arm he contrived to crawl noiselessly to the threshold, where the scratching increased in violence. For a moment he was in doubt whether the noise proceeded from the movements of a man or an animal. He gave a glance at the havildar, who was sound asleep, and placing his lips against the door murmured “Hercules!”
A low whining was the sole reply.
“It must be Dingo,” muttered Dick to himself; “Negoro may have told me a lie; perhaps, after all, the dog is not dead.”
As though in answer to his thoughts, a dog’s paw was pushed below the door. Dick seized it eagerly; he had no doubt it was Dingo’s; but if the dog brought a message, it was sure to be tied to his neck, and there seemed to be no means of getting at it, except the hole underneath could be made large enough to admit the animal’s head. Dick determined to try and scrape away the soil at the threshold, and commenced digging with his nails. But he had scarcely set himself to his task when loud barkings, other than Dingo’s, were heard in the distance. The faithful creature had been scented out by the native dogs, and instinct dictated an immediate flight. Alarm had evidently been taken, as several gunshots were fired; the havildar half roused himself from his slumber, and Dick was fain to roll himself once more into his corner, there to await the dawn of the day which was intended to be his last.
Throughout that day, the grave-digging was carried on with unremitted activity. A large number of the natives, under the superintendence of the queen’s prime minister, were set to work, and according to the decree of Moena, who seemed resolved to continue the rigorous sway of her departed husband, were bound, under penalty of mutilation, to accomplish their task within the proscribed time.
As soon as the stream had been diverted into its temporary channel, there was hollowed out in the dry river bed a pit, fifty feet long, ten feet wide, and ten feet deep. This, towards the close of the day, was lined throughout with living women, selected from Moené Loonga’s slaves; in ordinary cases it would have been their fate to be buried alive beside their master; but in
