stocky figure of a non-commissioned officer in a white helmet. Simultaneously appeared on the verandah of the large bungalow the tall form of a white man in pink silk pyjamas. The sergeant barked. The squad presented arms. A coloured ball slid up the flagpole. The first rays of the sun splintered the bloodied waters beyond into silver spikes and caressed a fluttering black, white and red flag. Then the squad ported arms, relieved the sentry, and retired, their black legs gleaming blue points as they rose and fell. The pink figure disappeared. Sergeant Schultz strutted back to his bungalow, in the verandah of which squatted a native girl clad in gay trade cloths. He emerged lighting a cigar, and sjambok in hand, returned to the orderly room. Another trumpet blared. From beyond the askaris’ camp came a line of natives, young and old, their scrawny necks linked together by a light iron chain which clanked musically. Filing on to the parade ground they were divided into gangs by Sergeant Schneider to labour under guard at the interminable work of the camp. The air above the swamp began to sizzle in the heat. The same slender figure clad in immaculate white reappeared upon the south verandah of the florid bungalow. Herr Ober-Lieutenant stood staring about the small square with a peevish glint in the fair eyes. A big negro in spotless white hurried around the house bearing a brass tray set with a cup, a liqueur glass and a decanter. Herr Lieutenant sprawled his legs on either arm of a Bombay chair. As he delicately mixed cognac with his coffee, his jewelled fingers sparkled in a shaft of sunlight which set afire the sapphires mounted in an ivory bracelet. At a yard from the table stood the servant as rigid as the flagpole. With a lazy insolence which marked his movements, the lieutenant sipped the café-cognac and smoked a cheroot, as if he were seated on the terrace of the Café de la Paix. The brutality of the round skull, emphasized by the cropped blonde hair, seemed at variance with the boyish rotundity of the face and the small, but dominant, nose. Two separate moustaches bristled so fiercely that they suggested sentries on guard over the feminine softness of the lips. When he had finished zu Pfeiffer arose languidly, lighted a fresh cigar, adjusted his helmet with care, took a gold-mounted sjambok from his servant, and strode across the square. The lines of his torso were so perfect that they suggested artificial aid. The orderly room was square and whitewashed; grass matting was upon the floor, and high screened doors opened on to the north verandah. Zu Pfeiffer sprawled in a swing chair before the office desk placed at an oblique angle to the wall, encumbered with books and papers. After tapping reflectively on a book cover with a polished nail zu Pfeiffer’s hand sharply struck the bell. Instantly a corporal appeared at the farther door and stood as if petrified, black hand to black temple. Zu Pfeiffer snapped instructions in Kiswahili without removing his cigar. The man grunted, shot his hand away at right angles with as much energy as if he were trying to knock down an elephant, and vanished. “Sergeant!” “Ja, Excellence.” At the other door like another Jack-in-the-box appeared Sergeant Schultz in exactly the same attitude. At a nod the sergeant melted into the semblance of human movement: he drew aside a chair, selected a certain document from a pile of them, and handed it to the lieutenant. Zu Pfeiffer pushed a box of cigars across the...