By degrees the crowd advanced to the sorcerers, the women and children surrounding them, the drummers rivaled each other in din, hands were clasped and held up towards the sky.
"That is their manner of praying," said Doctor Ferguson. "If I am not in error, we shall be called upon to undertake an important part."
"Very well, sir," said Joe, "play it."
"Even you, my brave Joe, may perhaps become a god."
"Well, sir, that won't worry me much, and the incense will be rather agreeable than otherwise."
At this moment one of the sorcerers, a "Waganga," made a gesture, and the clamor sank into profound silence. He addressed some words to the travelers, but in a tongue unknown to them.
Doctor Ferguson, not understanding what was said, replied at hazard in a few words of Arabic, and was immediately answered in that language.
The orator then delivered a flowing speech, very flowery and very distinct. The doctor had no difficulty in perceiving that the "Victoria" was actually taken for the moon in person, and that this amiable goddess had deigned to approach the town with her three sons, an honor which would never be forgotten in that country—beloved by the sun.
The doctor replied, with great dignity, that the moon made every thousand years a departmental tour, feeling the necessity of showing herself to her worshipers. He then prayed them to take advantage of her divine presence by making known their wants and vows.
The sorcerer replied that the sultan, the "Mwani," had been ill for many years, had asked the assistance of Heaven, and he now begged the sons of the moon to come to him.
The doctor imparted the invitation to his companions.
"And will you go to that nigger king?" said the Scotchman.
"Certainly. These people appear to me to be well disposed, the day is calm, there is scarcely a breath of wind. We have nothing to fear for the "Victoria."
"But what will you do?"
"Be quiet, my dear Dick; with a little medicine I will manage to get out of it."
