Italian held his tongue, then laughed airily: "Why not, amongst friends? That night is three years gone. Vinizzi is dead. I think it was Yambio who killed him. Poor Balthazar—but I shall tell you."
Durham the unimaginative sat upright in his chair; everybody else leaned forward as the Italian began: "Vinizzi commanded the post; I served under him. He had a sergeant named Yambio. Nobody knew where Yambio came from; it might have been unpleasant to inquire—that is the way of the Congo. But imagine Yambio, the color of old ivory, the length of my arm taller than I, half robed, half bare. Yambio might have been a prince—or perhaps a pirate, or a giant fighting his Carthaginian galley against the Romans. We found him a marvel in controlling the blacks; he spoke their language, and was a born soldier. One day Yambio asked permission to bring his favorite wife to the post—a young girl from the Barcine desert. Vinizzi granted the unfortunate permission. Early one morning the young wife came, a mere child, smiling, very happy and beautiful. She was called Sitt il Milah, the Lady of the Moon. As she dismounted from a camel, Vinizzi and two of his boon companions caught one glimpse of her. Which was enough. Men must be amused in the Congo. At once he ordered me to take Yam-
