I tried to explain that least of all men in the world did we worship Jana, who had been hunting us for hours, but they would not listen.
"You are spies of Simba's, the smell of Jana is upon you" (this may have been true enough), they yelled, adding: "We will kill you, white-faced goat.

We will kill you, little yellow monkey, for none who are not enemies come here from the land of the Black Kendah." "Kill us then," I answered, "and bring the curse of the Child upon you.
Bring famine, bring hail, bring war!" These words were, I think, well chosen; at any rate they induced a pause in their murderous intentions.

For a while they hesitated, all talking together at once.

At last the advocates of violence appeared to get the upper hand, and once more a number of the men began to dance about us, waving their spears and crying out that we must die who came from the Black Kendah.
I sat down upon the ground, for I was so exhausted that at the time I did not greatly care whether I died or lived, while Hans drew his knife and stood over me, cursing them as he had cursed at Jana.

By slow degrees they drew nearer and nearer.