The whole thing happened in less than a moment. As Burt recovered from his surprise the pigmies were still prostrate in the attitude of worship. Beside him lay the branding iron, unheeded. With a quick motion the boy stooped and caught it up, whirled it around, and sent it flying across the zareba. Then he turned to Mbopo.

"Now make good!" he exclaimed, as a murmur arose from the crowd at his action. "You're the boss, Mbopo!"

As though he had understood the words, the young pigmy sprang to his feet and began to speak rapidly in the clicking language of the dwarfs. For a moment there was a surge of the warriors toward the captives, then it was stopped. Mbopo spoke more and more rapidly, and finished his speech by seizing a spear from the nearest man and leaping on the throne of skins, where he stood in an attitude of defiance. For a moment the crowd seemed stupefied by surprise. Then went up two bark-like notes from every throat, and once more the pigmies sank prostrate in the dust, saluting their new chief.

"Bully for him!" cried Critch delightedly. "Now we're all right, Burt!"

"Looks that way," replied the flushed Burt, who had feared a speedy retribution for his rash act. Mbopo said a few more words, and again the peculiar bark-like guttural came from the crowd. There was a movement, and a dozen of the largest warriors, those who had formed the bodyguard of the old chief, stepped forward and saluted the new chief with a prostration. Mbopo had seized the throne.

"Now I wonder what'll happen?" said Critch. "Say, did you notice that lion's head, Burt?"

"Sure," nodded his chum. "It was all scarred white. Funny the way he butted through that thorn fence, wasn't it? Just like he didn't see it."

"I'll bet the scar came from the oil Cap'n Mac threw at him!" cried Critch excitedly. "Mebbe it—"

"That's it!" exclaimed Burt. "He's blind! He couldn't see the zareba but he could smell all right. That's it; he's blind!"

"Hurray!" shouted Critch. Before he could say any more a murmur from the crowd stopped him. The conversation of the two captives had not passed unobserved. One of the old men came forward, saluted the chief, and began to speak. The crowd signified their approval by repeated clicks and Mbopo also nodded while the wondering boys watched.

The old man finished his speech. Mbopo stood in silence for a moment and then gave an order. To the astonishment of the boys they were surrounded and bound hand and foot in a flash, and laid at the feet of the chief.

"No fash yerself, lad," came the familiar voice from above them in reassuring tones. "Mbopo help mebbe. Kill Pongo."

The bewildered boys lay silent. Burt tried in vain to reason out what was the reason for their seizure. He was convinced that Mbopo was their friend, and yet it might well be that the pigmies had demanded a sacrifice to Pongo from the new ruler and that Mbopo had yielded.

Then came another order, and the boys were picked up by a dozen hands. They were carried away from the fires and through rows of grass huts to the gateway of the zareba. This was opened, and Burt felt a thrill of fear as he realized that they were being carried outside. Were they to be staked out for the lion as Captain Mac had been?

The two were carried forward side by side, and at length were dropped on the ground. Then followed a clicking conversation, then the warriors retired and Mbopo leaned over them, knife in hand.

"Kill Pongo," he whispered cheeringly as he cut their bonds. "Mbopo help. Old chief vera bad mon. Mbopo him chief."

"Well, of all things!" ejaculated Critch as he sat up and rubbed his wrists. "What does it mean, Burt?"

"Why," responded Burt slowly, "I guess Mbopo has a notion that we can kill the lion by magic. We've run quite a bluff and I guess we'll have to make good, old man. What'll we do?"

Critch looked around. The night was oppressively silent save for the sound of drums and chanting from the village. They were sitting halfway between the town and the sacred hut, which could barely be made out in the starlight.

"If we could only get inside that hut," returned the red-haired boy, "without finding the lion there, we might wait for him with some poisoned arrows. We'll never see our rifles again, that's sure."

"The lion is blind, I guess," said Burt doubtfully, "but I'd hate to stand up to him with nothin' but a bow and arrow. Besides, d'you remember what Cap'n Mac said? They don't use poison here."

"That's right!" Critch turned to Mbopo. "You got poison, spears, arrows?" He had to repeat the question several times before the dwarf could comprehend his meaning. When he did so, Mbopo shook his head, saying that he had none.

"I don't b'lieve he's got you yet," said Burt disgustedly. "Well, we got to make good somehow, Critch. If Mbopo gets the notion that we've been running a bluff it's good night for us."

"Are you game to tackle the hut?" asked Critch shortly. "We're taking a chance on findin' Pongo at home, but it's all I can see to do. Anyhow, Burt, he ain't very hungry just now."

"I s'pose not," and Burt shuddered a trifle. "Come on then," and he rose to his feet. "Say! Why couldn't Mbopo bring us some weapons? If we had one o' them axes—"

"That's the talk!" burst out Critch. "If we had a couple o' men with axes, Burt, we could make a trap for the old lion! How's that?"

"Fine!" replied Burt hopefully. "Have to make it out o' pretty big logs, though. If the lion isn't inside, we can make a fire an' scare him off for a while anyhow."

"Lot o' good that'd do," grunted his chum. "He wouldn't know there was any fire there unless he walked into it!"

Burt turned to Mbopo. By dint of constant repetition and much patience he finally made the dwarf understand that he wanted another man or two and some weapons. Mbopo hesitated, then handed over a small axe that was slung at his waist.

"Me got bruder," he replied at length. "Bring him, bring plenty spear, hey?"

"That's it," exclaimed Burt. "Bring 'em over there, see?" and he pointed toward the sacred hut.

"Mebbe so, pretty quick," asserted the dwarf, rather doubtfully. "Kill Pongo?"

"You bet," answered Critch, a good deal more confidently than he felt, patting the dwarf on the shoulder. "Chase along now, old scout. We'll kill Pongo right enough!"

"Vera good," replied Mbopo. The next instant he was lost in the darkness, and Burt turned to his chum.

"Well, we might as well die game," he said, with an attempt at a smile. "Ready?"

"I s'pose so," responded Critch, who had suddenly lost his confident manner. "Get your matches ready."

The two boys started toward the sacred hut. Both were extremely stiff and sore, and in sad need of sleep. The sound of chanting and the throb of tom-toms came from the village behind without interruption, while in front of them was the forest, silent and black and somber. Suddenly the black hut with its dull gray stockade loomed up before them.

"Who's goin' first?" asked Burt, half-heartedly.

"I will," volunteered Critch. Holding a match ready, he entered the narrow gate of the ivory zareba. The little enclosure around the thatch hut was empty, and before them loomed a small black doorway. Critch, with one swift gesture, scratched the match and flung it inside, stooping to look after it. The brief flame gave them a rapid vista of bare walls and floor.

"Hurray!" whispered the red-haired lad hoarsely. "She's empty!"

Ashamed of his own timidity, Burt stepped past him without a word. As he went, he lit a match and held it on high. Tearing a piece of the loose thatch from the walls, he lit it and cast it on the floor and then the two boys looked around.

The hut was much larger than the other dwellings of the white pigmies. The floor was littered with bones, leaves, sticks and dirt of every description. Close inside the door stood three earthenware vessels, and while Burt threw more leaves and sticks on the little fire, Critch picked up one of these.

"Palm oil!" he cried. "Here's a light, Burt! Put a strip of cloth in each of these and we'll have elegant lamps."

In another moment each of the three improvised lamps was burning faintly, while the fire also flared up. As it did so Burt gave an exclamation.

"Say, I clear forgot about the mummy! There she is, Critch."

He pointed to the wall opposite the entrance, holding up his "lamp." Both walked across the rubbish-littered floor, which smelt most frightfully. Before them, standing erect against the wall, was a large wooden mummy-case. Most of its paint was gone long since, only a few faint traces of gilding remaining to show what it must once have been. Beside this lay an object that brought a whistle of amazement from Critch.

"That's Pongo, Burt! The golden ankh, sure's you're born!"

The boys looked down in awe at this relic of an ancient people. About four feet long and nearly as thick as Burt's wrist, the symbol of the Goddess of Truth gleamed up with a ruddy yellow color from the dirt that half covered it. Fascinated by the sight, the boys stared in silence until at last Critch uttered a sigh.

"Well, we're wastin' time, Burt. We got to plan out that trap."

Burt turned away from the two relics, and threw some dry sticks on the fire. There was an opening in the center of the roof through which the smoke escaped fairly well. Burt's head was full of the mummy, and for the moment he paid no attention to his chum's remark.

"It's kind of queer," he remarked, sitting down against the wall, "to think of Ta-En-User meeting us this way! Just think of his trip clear over from Egypt, and our trip clear over from—"

"Shucks," interrupted the more practical Critch. "I'm thinking of Pongo right now. Come out of it! We've got to frame up something before Mbopo gets back."

"I can't see what there is to frame up," retorted Burt hopelessly. "All we can do is to lay low. What kind of a trap you thinking of?"

"Well," explained Critch, frowning, "I kind of thought we could make one out of logs, like they use on bears out West."

"Why wouldn't it be better," suggested Burt, "to dig a pit like those Bantus do? We could dig it right out in front here, cover it over with grass, and stick a spear up in the bottom. That'd finish Mr. Pongo mighty sudden next time he came around."

"Can't do that," replied the other. "It's a mighty big job to tackle, Burt. If you'd ever dug holes for fence posts you'd know."

"I wonder what Uncle George is doing right now?" said Burt suddenly. "Do you think he'll start after us?"

"He might," answered Critch doubtfully. "He'd never make it in a million years though. You know what the black dwarfs did to Cap'n Mac. Say, this is worse than any story book I ever read! We're right up against it solid, Burt. If we pull out of this hole it'll mean work. We ain't got your uncle to lean on or anyone else. Mbopo don't count for much, I'm afraid. Gosh, I wish we had a couple guns! We could clean up on old Pongo like a house afire."

"He was pretty big, just the same," said Burt. "Lot's bigger'n any we've bagged so far. Even if he is blind, which we aren't sure of, it wouldn't be any cinch to tackle him."

"Anyhow," retorted his chum, "we can't expect to lay around and wait for something to happen. We got to make it happen. We're in possession of the ankh, like Cap'n Mac was, so we're safe enough for the present. Mbopo's the only one who's game to go after Pongo, that's sure. If his brother is up to the mark we ought to do something."

"That was fierce, the way the old chief got carried off," remarked Burt as he gazed around with a little shiver. Still the dull throb of the drums came faintly from without, but the chanting had now ceased. "It was mighty lucky for us, just the same. Don't it seem funny, that here we are plannin' to kill Pongo right after he's saved our lives that way?"

"There's a whole lot of things that strike me funny," answered Critch. "Wouldn't it be great if we could carry off all this ivory and the gold ankh."

"Huh!" grunted Burt. "Fine chance of that. It stumped Cap'n Mac to do it."

"Come on now, get down to business," said Critch, straightening up. "First, we got to figure on how many logs we'll need. I should think we might rig up something right here inside the ivory zareba, but I don't see quite how. We can't very well fix a trap out in the forest, because Pongo ain't liable to be hungry right away. It's queer that he didn't bring the old chief here like he brought Cap'n Mac. Mebbe he uses this more as sleeping quarters, and prefers to take his meals out in the open air."