"You came to Wanda--my prisoner," he said. "You left because I do not
kill white men, and they are not good slaves. But if you return to Wanda
you will die. Therefore be wise, and go back to your people, as I go to
mine!"
Herne raised himself to a sitting position. His shoulder was beginning
to hurt him intolerably, but he strove desperately to keep it in the
background of his consciousness.
"Why don't you kill white men?" he said.
But the question was treated with a silence that felt contemptuous.
The glow without was fading swiftly, and the darkness was creeping up
like a curtain over the desert. The weird figure standing upright
against the door-flap seemed to take on a deeper mystery, a silence more
unfathomable.
Herne began to feel as if he were in a dream. If the man had not spoken
he would have wondered if his very presence were but hallucination.
He gathered his wits for another effort.
"Tell me," he said, "do you never use white men as slaves?"
Still that uncompromising silence.
Herne persevered.
"Three years ago, before the Wandis conquered the Zambas, there was a
white man, an Englishman, who placed himself at their head, and taught
them to fight.
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