Dick Sand fell into a restoring sleep, that lasted two hours.
After that he awoke, still stronger.
He succeeded in freeing one of his arms from their bands—it was already a little reduced—and it was a delight for him to be able to extend it and draw it back at will.
The night must be half over.
The overseer slept with heavy sleep, due to a bottle of brandy, the neck of which was still held in his shut hand. The savage had emptied it to the last drop.
Dick Sand's first idea was to take possession of his jailer's weapons, which might be of great use to him in case of escape; but at that moment he thought he heard a slight scratching at the lower part of the door of the barrack.
Helping himself with his arms, he succeeded in crawling as far as the door-sill without wakening the overseer.
Dick Sand was not mistaken.
The scratching continued, and in a more distinct manner. It seemed that from the outside some one was digging the earth under the door.
Was it an animal? Was it a man?
"Hercules! If it were Hercules!" the young novice said to himself.
His eyes were fixed on his guard; he was motionless, and under the influence of a leaden sleep.
Dick Sand, bringing his lips to the door-sill, thought he might risk murmuring Hercules's name.
A moan, like a low and plaintive bark, replied to him.
"It is not Hercules," said Dick to himself, "but it is Dingo.
He has scented me as far as this barrack.
Should he bring me another word from Hercules?
But if Dingo is not dead, Negoro has lied, and perhaps—"
At that moment a paw passed under the door.
Dick Sand seized it, and recognized Dingo's paw.
But, if it had a letter, that letter could only be attached to its neck.
What to do?
Was it possible to make that hole large enough for Dingo to put in its head?
At all events, he must try it.
But hardly had Dick Sand begun to dig the soil with his nails, than barks that were not Dingo's sounded over the place. The faithful animal had just been scented by the native dogs, and doubtless could do nothing more than take to flight.
Some detonations burst forth. The overseer half awoke.
Dick Sand, no longer able to think of escaping, because the alarm was given, must then roll himself up again in his corner, and, after a lovely hope, he saw appear that day which would be without a to-morrow for him.
During all that day the grave-diggers' labors were pushed on with briskness.
A large number of natives took part, under the direction of Queen Moini's first minister.
All must be ready at the hour named, under penalty of mutilation, for the new sovereign promised to follow the defunct king's ways, point by point.
The waters of the brook having been turned aside, it was in the dry bed that the vast ditch was dug, to a depth of ten feet, over an extent of fifty feet long by ten wide.
Toward the end of the day they began to carpet it, at the bottom and along the walls, with living women, chosen among Moini Loungga's slaves.
Generally those unfortunates are buried alive. But, on account of this strange and perhaps miraculous death of Moini Loungga, it had been decided that they should be drowned near the body of their master. One cannot imagine what those horrible hecatombs are, when a powerful chief's memory must be fitly honored among these tribes of Central Africa. Cameron says that more than a hundred victims were thus sacrificed at the funeral ceremonies of the King of Kassongo's father. It is also the custom for the defunct king to be dressed in his most costly clothes before being laid in his tomb.
But this time, as there was nothing left of the royal person except a few burnt bones, it was necessary to proceed in another manner.
A willow manikin was made, representing Moini Loungga sufficiently well, perhaps advantageously, and in it they shut up the remains the combustion had spared.
The manikin was then clothed with the royal vestments—we know that those clothes are not worth much—and they did not forget to ornament it with Cousin Benedict's famous spectacles.
There was something terribly comic in this masquerade.
The ceremony would take place with torches and with great pomp.
The whole population of Kazounde, native or not, must assist at it.
When the evening had come, a long cortege descended the principal street, from the tchitoka as far as the burial place.
Cries, funeral dances, magicians' incantations, noises from instruments and detonations from old muskets from the arsenals—nothing was lacking in it.
Jose-Antonio Alvez, Coimbra, Negoro, the Arab traders and their overseers had increased the ranks of Kazounde's people.
No one had yet left the great lakoni. Queen Moini would not permit it, and it would not be prudent to disobey the orders of one who was trying the trade of sovereign.
The body of the king, laid in a palanquin, was carried in the last ranks of the cortege.
It was surrounded by his wives of the second order, some of whom were going to accompany him beyond this life.
Queen Moini, in great state, marched behind what might be called the catafalque.
It was positively night when all the people arrived on the banks of the brook; but the resin torches, shaken by the porters, threw great bursts of light over the crowd.
The ditch was seen distinctly.
It was carpeted with black, living bodies, for they moved under the chains that bound them to the ground.
Fifty slaves were waiting there till the torrent should close over them.