Some of the servants left at once to carry out the
king's command, and soon the visitors were comfortably settled. The people
flocked to their huts, bringing many gifts, and lingered about until the
day was ended.
Late that night, when all the village was asleep, suddenly there was a
piercing scream, then another, and another. The people rushed from their
huts; for many of their homes were on fire. The white men, who called
themselves Livingstone's children, were seizing women and children, and
binding them with strong cords of leather. Around the necks of the men they
fastened great Y-shaped sticks, riveting the forked ends together with
iron. "We have been deceived," cried the natives. "The visitors were not
Livingstone's children. They were slave-raiders. O! why did we ever trust
them? If the white master were here, he would save us. He never takes
slaves."
In the gray light of the morning, leaving their village a heap of
smoldering ruins, the sad procession was marched off, heavily guarded. For
two days their merciless captors drove them under the hot tropical sun
without food or water.
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