"It's very kind of you, Msala, and you've said uncommonly nice things about me, but it can't be, my friend. I am really deeply touched by your confidence, but I feel that I ought to lose no time now in rejoining my own people. You are mourning your dead chief, and my friends, you must remember, are mourning me, no doubt, as dead."
Kuboko need not think of that, said the katikiro eagerly; messengers should be despatched at once to the ends of the earth to explain. If he would not be their chief, would he not at least stay with them for a short time? Surely he would not desert them in their need--before he had taught them the way to fight the Arabs.
"Do you really think the Arabs will come back?"
Yes, there was no doubt of it; and in their fastnesses, far beyond the forest, they numbered thousands upon thousands of men. The Bahima were grateful for what Kuboko had already done for them, but what good was it all if they were left to be the prey of a still more numerous host, thirsting for revenge?
Tom mused. It was a case for serious thought. Could he leave them to face the Arabs without his help? It seemed a breach of faith, a desertion. For he felt in his heart that they were right, that the Arabs would certainly return to exact a terrible vengeance, and that without the stimulus of his leadership the Bahima would infallibly be crushed. Tom was the last person to overestimate his value, but he saw clearly that although there was plenty of courage among the Bahima, and a great fund of the qualities that make for self-sacrifice, there was little military aptitude of the higher sort. They would have little or no chance against such practised campaigners as the Arabs and their allies. Yet who was he to match himself against the Arabs? He had had little military training; he was intended for a civilian career; would it not be presumptuous in him to suppose that, if the Arabs returned in their might, he could, with such rough material as he had alone at his disposal, attempt to cope with them? Then he remembered that for generations past he had soldiers among his ancestors; was it some hereditary bent that accounted for his success in the village hitherto? He had been successful. Why should he not be successful again? Why should he not use the powers he had in a service with which his countrymen had so long been identified? In any case--and this clinched his resolve--the Bahima with him would more nearly match the Arabs than without him. Was it not then his duty to remain?