It was already daybreak, and Mr.Hume stood on the verandah, having drawn the mats aside.
The sun, striking under the thatch, shone on the hunter's tawny hair and beard, and Venning wondered how for a moment he could have doubted the courage of a man with such a lion-like head.

But he was to receive another shock.
"Silence, dog!" roared the hunter, addressing the singer, evidently.
Compton, who was sitting on his hammock dressing, looked out.
"By Jove," he muttered, "he's shouting at Muata!" Venning jumped down to the floor and looked out.

Muata was still bound to the post, and, with his face to the sun, was chanting his words of greeting or of farewell in tones that lacked the deep chest-notes of his war-cry.
One of the natives, hearing the order of the white man, flung a stick at the chief with an insult; but Muata, nothing heeding, sang on his slow song in a voice that was almost like a woman's.
"Must white men lose their sleep because a robber is to die ?" roared the hunter again.
Venning snatched up a beaker of water and ran out barefooted.

He held the water to the chiefs mouth.

Muata turned his smouldering eyes on the boy, sucked in a mouthful of the water, and then shot it out over Venning's outstretched arm.
Venning dropped the mug, and went back with a red face to see the two officers regarding him with sour faces.
"Serve you right," shouted Mr.Hume, in apparent fury.