wife."
"You shall honour her best," said Sanders, "by honouring me."
"Cicero says – " began Tobolaka in English.
"Damn Cicero!" snapped Sanders in the same language.
He stayed the day, and Tobolaka did his best to make reparation for his discourtesy. Towards evening Sanders found himself listening to complaints. Tobolaka had his troubles.
"I called a palaver of all chiefs," he explained, "desiring to inaugurate a system analogous to county councils. Therefore I sent to the Akasava, the N'gombi, and the Ochori, their chiefs. Now, sir," said the injured Tobolaka, relapsing into English, "none of these discourteous fellows – "
"Speak in the language of the land, Tobolaka," said Sanders wearily.
"Lord, no man came," said the king; "nor have they sent tribute. And I desired to bring them to my marriage feast that my wife should be impressed; and, since I am to be married in the Christian style, it would be well that these little chiefs should see with their eyes the practice of God-men."
"Yet I cannot force these chiefs to your palaver, Tobolaka," said Sanders.
"Also, lord," continued the chief, "one of these men is a Mohammedan and an evil talker, and when I sent to him to do homage to me he replied with terrible words, such as I would not say again."
"You must humour your chiefs, king," said Sanders, and gave the discomfited monarch no warmer cheer.
Sanders left next day for headquarters, and in his hurry forgot to inquire further into the forthcoming wedding feast.
"And the sooner he marries the better," he said to the Houssa captain. "Nothing tires me quite so much as a Europeanised-Americanised native. It is as indecent a spectacle as a niggerised white man."
"He'll settle down; there's no stake in a country like a wife," said the Houssa. "I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't forget old man Cicero. Which chief's daughter is to be honoured?"
Sanders shook his head.
"I don't know, and I'm not interested. He might make a good chief – I'm prejudiced against him, I admit. As likely as not he'll chuck his job after a year if they don't 'chop' him – they're uncertain devils, these Akasavas. Civilisation has a big big call for him; he's always getting letters from England and America."
The Houssa captain bit off the end of a cigar.
"I hope he doesn't try Cicero on Bosambo," he said significantly.
The next day brought the mail – an event.
Usually Sanders was down on the beach to meet the surf-boat that carries the post, but on this occasion he was interviewing two spies who had arrived with urgent news.
Therefore he did not see the passenger whom the Castle Queen landed till she stood on the stoep before the open door of the residency.
Sanders, glancing up as a shadow fell across the wooden stoep, rose and temporarily dismissed the two men with a gesture.
Then he walked slowly to meet the girl.
She was small and pretty in a way, rather flushed by the exertion of walking from the beach to the house.
Her features were regular, her mouth was small, her chin a little weak. She seemed ill at ease.
"How do you do?" said Sanders, bewildered by the unexpectedness of the vision. He drew a chair for her, and she sank into it with a grateful little smile, which she instantly checked, as though she had set herself an unpleasant task and was not to be conciliated or turned aside by any act of courtesy on his part.
"And exactly what brings you to this unlikely place?" he asked.
"I'm Millie Tavish," she said. "I suppose you've heard about me?"
She spoke with a curious accent. When she told him her name he recognised it as Scottish, on which American was imposed.
"I haven't heard about you," he said. "I presume you are going up-country to a missionary station. I'm sorry – I do not like lady missionaries in the country."
She laughed a shrill, not unmusical laugh.
"Oh, I guess I'm not a missionary," she said complacently. "I'm the queen."
Sanders looked at her anxiously. To women in his country he had conscientious objections; mad women he barred.
"I'm the queen," she repeated, evidently pleased with the sensation she had created. "My! I never thought I should be a queen. My grandfather used to be a gardener of Queen Victoria's before he came to N'York – "
"But – " said the staggered Commissioner.
"It was like this," she rattled on. "When Toby was in Philadelphia at the theological seminary I was a help at Miss Van Houten's – that's the boarding house – an' Toby paid a lot of attention to me. I thought he was joshin' when he told me he was going to be a king, but he's made good all right. And I've written to him every week, and he's sent me the money to come along – "
"Toby?" said Sanders slowly. "Who is Toby?"
"Mr. Tobolaka – King Tobolaka," she said.
A look of horror, which he did not attempt to disguise, swept over the face of the Commissioner.
"You've come out to marry him – a black man?" he gasped.
The girl flushed a deep red.
"That's my business," she said stiffly. "I'm not asking advice from you. Say, I've heard about you – your name's mud along this old coast, but I'm not afraid of you. I've got a permit to go up the Isisi, and I'm goin'."
She was on her feet, her arms akimbo, her eyes blazing with anger, for, womanlike, she felt the man's unspoken antagonism.
"My name may be mud," said Sanders quietly, "and what people say about me doesn't disturb my sleep. What they would say about me if I'd allowed you to go up-country and marry a black man would give me bad nights. Miss Tavish, the mail-boat leaves in an hour for Sierra Leone. There you will find a steamer to take you to England. I will arrange for your passage and see that you are met at Southampton and your passage provided for New York."
"I'll not go," she stormed; "you don't put that kind of bluff on me. I'm an American citizeness and no dud British official is going to boss me – so there!"
Sanders smiled.
He was prepared to precipitate matters now to violate treaties, to create crises, but he was not prepared to permit what he regarded as an outrage. In turn she bullied and pleaded; she even wept, and Sanders's hair stood on end from sheer fright. To make the situation more difficult, a luxurious Isisi canoe with twenty paddlers had arrived to carry her to the city, and the headman in charge had brought a letter from her future lord welcoming her in copper-plate English. This letter Sanders allowed the man to deliver.
In the end, after a hasty arrangement, concluded by letter with the captain of the boat, he escorted Millie Tavish to the beach.
She called down on his head all the unhappiness her vocabulary could verbalise; she threw with charming impartiality the battle of Bannockburn and Bunker's Hill at his stolid British head. She invoked the shades
