"Yes," said Numabo. "In a great thing which resembled a bird he
flew down out of the sky. The thing is still there where it came
down close to the four trees near the second bend in the river. We
left it there because, not knowing what it was, we were afraid to
touch it and it is still there if it has not flown away again."
"It cannot fly," said Usanga, "without this man in it. It is a
terrible thing which filled the hearts of our soldiers with terror,
for it flew over our camps at night and dropped bombs upon us.
It is well that you captured this white man, Numabo, for with his
great bird he would have flown over your village tonight and killed
all your people. These Englishman are very wicked white men."
"He will fly no more," said Numabo "It is not intended that a man
should fly through the air; only wicked demons do such things as
that and Numabo, the chief, will see that this white man does not
do it again," and with the words he pushed the young officer roughly
toward a hut in the center of the village, where he was left under
guard of two stalwart warriors.
For an hour or more the prisoner was left to his own devices, which
consisted in vain and unremitting attempts to loosen the strands
which fettered his wrists, and then he was interrupted by the
appearance of the black sergeant Usanga, who entered his hut and
approached him.
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