minutes passed, and then seven minutes; and MacIan bit his lip
and swung his sword, and the other did not reappear. Finally,
with a Gaelic oath, Evan started forward to the rescue, and
almost at the same moment the small figure of the missing man
appeared on the ridge against the sky.

Even at that distance, however, there was something odd about his
attitude; so odd that MacIan continued to make his way in that
direction. It looked as if he were wounded; or, still more, as if
he were ill. He wavered as he came down the slope and seemed
flinging himself into peculiar postures. But it was only when he
came within three feet of MacIan's face, that that observer of
mankind fully realized that Mr. James Turnbull was roaring with
laughter.

"You are quit right," sobbed that wholly demoralized journalist.
"He's black, oh, there's no doubt the black's all right--as far
as it goes." And he went off again into convulsions of his
humorous ailment.

"What ever is the matter with you?" asked MacIan, with stern
impatience. "Did you see the nigger----"

"I saw the nigger," gasped Turnbull. "I saw the splendid
barbarian Chief. I saw the Emperor of Ethiopia--oh, I saw him all
right. The nigger's hands and face are a lovely colour--and the
nigger----" And he was overtaken once more.

"Well, well, well," said Evan, stamping each monosyllable on the
sand, "what about the nigger?"