The witnesses were many--of all ages and of both sexes. The case
promised to be a famous one, so relations and friends had come from the
villages round about to attend. The people had travelled slowly,
consequently it was late in the afternoon when they arrived.
The Native Commissioner had decided to take evidence on the morrow; the
people were therefore directed to camp by the river for the night.
Chiromo was to remain in the cell to which he had been conducted earlier
in the day by the messenger.
Mokorongo was very happy. He had presented himself to his master on
arrival, returned the paperweight, reported the arrest of Chiromo, and
had handed over the basket of medicines. He would have told his story
then and there, but the Commissioner, who was busy, dismissed him with
"Good, now go and eat and sleep. You can return at sundown and tell me
everything. I will listen to the witnesses to-morrow."
But, of course, Mokorongo did not sleep. He felt a hero, and was so
regarded by his fellow messengers and others. He told the story of his
adventures to all who cared to hear, and they were many. Little work was
done that day by any native on the Station.
With much telling the story improved almost beyond recognition. For
instance, his seventh audience was thrilled by the recitation of the
threatening words which the skull had addressed to him; knots of woolly
hair rose when the efforts of the fleshless hand to grasp the master's
talisman were described; the brave words which Mokorongo had addressed
to the basket of medicines when it had shown an inclination to escape by
the door drew grunts of admiration; a shudder ran through his hearers
when he repeated what the dead chameleons had related to him--how they
had once been men, until transformed and killed by the very bad man now
under arrest.
The narrative was interrupted by one of the house-boys: "You are
called," was the curt command, meaning that his master wished to see
Mokorongo.
Under the stimulus of the great admiration of his fellows, generously
expressed, Mokorongo had given free play to his imagination. His
narrative had become thrilling; but now, under the cold eye of the
master, fancy fled, and the messenger's account of himself conformed to
the court formula--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.
How Chiromo passed the night cannot, of course, be told. He might have
spent the time preparing his defence; it is much more likely that he
simply slept.