Muata, in the mean time, reached the half-drowned jackal, held it by the scruff of the neck with one hand, and, turning over on his back, waited for the rope.

This flung and seized, he also climbed on board, but there was nothing abject in his appearance.

Standing with his head thrown back and his nostrils quivering, he glared a moment at the group of natives; then, seizing a bar of iron, he made a bound forward, uttering a wild war-whoop.
There would have been bloodshed had not Mr.Hume, with surprising quietness, flung himself forward and seized the chief round the waist.
Compton, cool and ready, wrenched the bar away; and, seeing this, the natives plucked up spirit, calling on the white man to throw the "black dog" to the crocodiles, which had been attracted by the blood of their wounded fellow, still beating the water in his flurry.
Venning, however, stepped between with his rifle, and the uproar ceased once more.
"Now," said Mr.Hume, holding the chief by his arm, "what does this mean?
What harm have those men done you ?" "My father has the lion's grip.

Mawoh! Muata was a babe in his arms." "That may be, but it is no answer." "What harm! Did not my father hear the jackal give tongue ?" "I heard; and those jackals there"-- indicating the watching group-- "yelped at me, so that I flung one into the water.

But--what then?
Do you seek to slay when your beast howls ?" "My father does not know, then." "I want to know, for it seems to me you were all mad together." "Ohe! it is the madness that slays.