One thing puzzled us much more than the cannibal story.  We heard shooting a long way off behind us to our right—­two shots, followed by the unmistakable ringing echo among growing trees.  Had Schillingschen decided to desert us?  And if so, how did he dare squander two of his three cartridges at once—­supposing he were not now mad, as our boys, and his, all vowed he was?  His own ten men began to beg to be protected from him, and the captured Baganda recommended in best missionary English that we seek the services of the first witch doctor we could find.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE SONG OF THE ELEPHANTS

Who is as heavy as we, or as strong? 
        Ho! but we trample the shambas down! 
Saw ye a swath where the trash lay long
        And tall trees flat like a harvest mown? 
That was the path we shore in haste
        (Judge, is it easy to find, and wide!)
Ripping the branch and bough to waste
        Like rocks shot loose from a mountain side! 
Therefore hear us: 

(All together, stamping steadily In time.)

        ’Twas we who lonely echoes woke
        To copy the crash of the trees we broke! 
        Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
        Shall humble the will of the Ivory Folk!

Once we were monarchs from sky to sky,
        Many were we and the men were few;
Then we would go to the Place to die—­
        Elephant tombs* that the oldest knew,—­
Old as the trees when the prime is past,
        Lords unchallenged of vale and plain,
Grazing aloof and alone at last
        To lie where the oldest had always lain. 
So we sing of it: 

-----------------------------
* The legendary place that every Ivory hunter hopes some day to stumble
on, where elephants are said to have gone away to die of old age, and
where there should therefore be almost unimaginable wealth of ivory. 
The legend, itself as old as African speech, is probably due to the
rarity of remains of elephants that
have died a natural death.
------------------------------

(All together, swinging from side to side in time, and tossing trunks.)

        ’Twas we who lonely echoes woke
        To copy the crash of the trees we broke! 
        Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
        Shall govern the strength of the Ivory Folk!

Still we are monarchs!  Our strength and weight
        Can flatten the huts of the frightened men! 
But the glory of smashing is lost of late,
        We raid less eagerly now than then,
For pits are staked, and the traps are blind,
        The guns be many, the men be more;
We fidget with pickets before and behind,
        Who snoozed in the noonday heat of yore. 
Yet, hear us sing: 

(All together, ears up and trunks extended.)

        ’Twas we who lonely echoes woke
        To copy the crash of the trees we broke! 
        Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke
        Have lessened the rage of the Ivory Folk!