Both Gregorius and Sara spoke to him at great length, trying to explain
his error, and he nodded and grinned benevolently at them but remained
completely unshaken in his conviction, and ended by embracing Gareth
Swales, making a long rambling speech in Amharic, hailing him as an
Englishman and a comrade in arms. Then, before the speech ended, the
Ras fell suddenly and dramatically asleep in mid-sentence, falling face
forward into a large bowl of mutton wat. The day's battle, the
excitement of learning of his new and powerful ally, and the large
quantities of tej were too much for him, and four of his bodyguard
lifted him from the bowl and carried him snoring loudly to his
household tent.
"Do not worry," Sara told his guests. "My grandfather will not be gone
for long after a small rest he will return."
"Tell him not to put himself out," murmured Gareth Swales. "I for one
have seen about enough of him for one day." The glow of the bonfires
turned the sky ruddy and paled the moon that sailed above the mountain
peaks. It shone on the steel and polished wood of the huge pile of
captured weapons, rifles and pistols and ammunition bandoliers, that
were heaped triumphantly in the open space before the royal party.
The sparks from the fires rose straight upwards into the still night
and the laughter and voices of the guests became more unrestrained as
the tej gourds circulated.
Farther along the valley, also within the acacia grove, the Gallas of
Ras Kullah were celebrating the victory also, and there was the
occasional faint outburst of drunken shouts and a fusillade of shots
from captured Italian rifles.
Vicky sat between Gareth and Jake. She had not arranged it so,
and if given the choice would have sat alone with Jake, but Gareth
Swales had not been as easily discouraged as she had believed he
might.
Sara came from her place beside Gregorius. Crossing the squatting
circle of feasting guests, she knelt on the pile of leather cushions
beside Vicky, pushing herself in between Gareth and the girl and she
leaned close to Vicky, an arm around her shoulder and her lips touching
her ear.
"You should have told me," she accused her sadly. "I did not know that
you had decided on Jake first. I would have advised you-" At that
instant a sound carried from the camp of the tance and Gallas to where
they sat. It was muted by ths almost obscured by the closer hubbub of
the feasting Harari filling yet the terrible heart-stopping quality of
it pierced Vicky so that she gasped and clutched Sara's wrist.
Beside her Jake and Gareth had stiffened and were listening also,
their heads turned to catch the sound that rose and died in a
long-drawn-out rending sob.
"You have not handled them correctly, Miss Camberwell." Sara went on
speaking as if she had heard nothing.
"Sara, what is it what was that?" Vicky shook her arm urgently.
"Ah!" Sara made a gesture of disdain and contempt. "That fat pervert
Ras Kullah has come down from his hiding-place.
the victory, he has come to enjoy Now that we have won the booty.
He arrived an hour ago with his fat milch cows and now he feasts and
entertains himself." The sound came again. It was inhuman, a terrible
high pitched screech that tore across Vicky's nerves. It rose higher
and higher, until Vicky wanted to cover her ears with both hands. At
the instant that it seemed her nerves must snap, the sound was cut off
abruptly.
A listening silence had fallen upon the revelling throng around the
bonfires, and the silence persisted for a few then there was a seconds
longer after the scream had ended, murmur of comment and here and there
a burst of careless, cruel laughter.
"What is it, damn it, Sara, what are they doing?"
"Ras Kullah is playing with the Italians," Sara said quietly, and Vicky
realized that she had thought no further of the prisoners taken that
day from the routed Italian column.
"Playing, Sara? What do you mean?" And Sara spat like an angry cat, a
gesture of utter disgust.
"They are animals, those beasts of Ras Kullah. They will make sport of
them all night, and in the morning they will cut away their man's
things," she spat again. "Before they can marry, they must take a
man's things what do you call them, the two things in the little
sac?"
"Testicles," said Vicky hoarsely, almost choking on the word.
"Yes," agreed Sara. "They must kill a man and take his testicles to
the bride. It is their custom, but first they will make sport with the
Italians."
"Can't we stop them? "Vicky asked.
"Stop them?" Sara looked amazed. "They are only Italians, and it is
the Galla custom." Again came that cry, and again there was complete
silence from the revellers. It climbed high into the silent desert
air, shriek upon shriek, so that it seemed impossible that it could
come from a human lung, and their souls cringed at the dimensions of
suffering which could give vent to that pinnacle of agonized sound.
"Oh God! Oh God!" whispered Vicky, and she lifted her eyes from
Sara's face to that of Gareth Swales who sat beyond her.
He was silent and still, his face turned half away from her, so that
