They stood still, contemplating one another with intense eyes, as if they had been looking with effort across immense distances.  Kayerts shivered.  Makola had meant no more than he said, but his words seemed to Kayerts full of ominous menace!  He turned sharply and went away to the house.  Makola retired into the bosom of his family; and the tusks, left lying before the store, looked very large and valuable in the sunshine.

Carlier came back on the verandah.  “They’re all gone, hey?” asked Kayerts from the far end of the common room in a muffled voice.  “You did not find anybody?”

“Oh, yes,” said Carlier, “I found one of Gobila’s people lying dead before the huts—­shot through the body.  We heard that shot last night.”

Kayerts came out quickly.  He found his companion staring grimly over the yard at the tusks, away by the store.  They both sat in silence for a while.  Then Kayerts related his conversation with Makola.  Carlier said nothing.  At the midday meal they ate very little.  They hardly exchanged a word that day.  A great silence seemed to lie heavily over the station and press on their lips.  Makola did not open the store; he spent the day playing with his children.  He lay full-length on a mat outside his door, and the youngsters sat on his chest and clambered all over him.  It was a touching picture.  Mrs. Makola was busy cooking all day, as usual.  The white men made a somewhat better meal in the evening.  Afterwards, Carlier smoking his pipe strolled over to the store; he stood for a long time over the tusks, touched one or two with his foot, even tried to lift the largest one by its small end.  He came back to his chief, who had not stirred from the verandah, threw himself in the chair and said—­

“I can see it!  They were pounced upon while they slept heavily after drinking all that palm wine you’ve allowed Makola to give them.  A put-up job!  See?  The worst is, some of Gobila’s people were there, and got carried off too, no doubt.  The least drunk woke up, and got shot for his sobriety.  This is a funny country.  What will you do now?”

“We can’t touch it, of course,” said Kayerts.

“Of course not,” assented Carlier.

“Slavery is an awful thing,” stammered out Kayerts in an unsteady voice.

“Frightful—­the sufferings,” grunted Carlier with conviction.

They believed their words.  Everybody shows a respectful deference to certain sounds that he and his fellows can make.  But about feelings people really know nothing.  We talk with indignation or enthusiasm; we talk about oppression, cruelty, crime, devotion, self-sacrifice, virtue, and we know nothing real beyond the words.  Nobody knows what suffering or sacrifice mean—­except, perhaps the victims of the mysterious purpose of these illusions.