“This is a momentous occasion, Messrs. Quatermain and Somers,” he said as he gave us the coffee, and I noted that his hand shook and his teeth chattered.  “The cold is extreme,” he went on in his copybook English by way of explaining these physical symptoms which he saw I had observed.  “Mr. Quatermain, it is all very well for you to paw the ground and smell the battle from afar, as is written in the Book of Job.  But I was not brought up to the trade and take it otherwise.  Indeed I wish I was back at the Cape, yes, even within the whitewashed walls of the Place of Detention.”

“So do I,” I muttered, keeping my right foot on the ground with difficulty.

But Stephen laughed outright and asked: 

“What will you do, Sammy, when the fighting begins?”

“Mr. Somers,” he answered, “I have employed some wakeful hours in making a hole behind that tree-trunk, through which I hope bullets will not pass.  There, being a man of peace, I shall pray for our success.”

“And if the Arabs get in, Sammy?”

“Then, sir, under Heaven, I shall trust to the fleetness of my legs.”

I could stand it no longer, my right foot flew up and caught Sammy in the place at which I had aimed.  He vanished, casting a reproachful look behind him.

Just then a terrible clamour arose in the slavers’ camp which hitherto had been very silent, and just then also the first light of dawn glinted on the barrels of our guns.

“Look out!” I cried, as I gulped down the last of my coffee, “there’s something going on there.”

The clamour grew louder and louder till it seemed to fill the skies with a concentrated noise of curses and shrieking.  Distinct from it, as it were, I heard shouts of alarm and rage, and then came the sounds of gunshots, yells of agony and the thud of many running feet.  By now the light was growing fast, as it does when once it comes in these latitudes.  Three more minutes, and through the grey mist of the dawn we saw dozens of black figures struggling up the slope towards us.  Some seemed to have logs of wood tied behind them, others crawled along on all fours, others dragged children by the hand, and all yelled at the top of their voices.

“The slaves are attacking us,” said Stephen, lifting his rifle.

“Don’t shoot,” I cried.  “I think they have broken loose and are taking refuge with us.”

I was right.  These unfortunates had used the two knives which our men smuggled to them to good purpose.  Having cut their bonds during the night they were running to seek the protection of the Englishmen and their flag.  On they surged, a hideous mob, the slave-sticks still fast to the necks of many of them, for they had not found time or opportunity to loose them all, while behind came the Arabs firing.  The position was clearly very serious, for if they burst into our camp, we should be overwhelmed by their rush and fall victims to the bullets of their captors.