Out came the commandant then, in snow-white uniform, with his saber polished until it shone--all spruced up for the occasion, and followed by a guard of honor consisting of lieutenant, two sergeants, and six black askaris.
There was a chair by the table.

At sight of the commandant the sergeants made their victim use that as a step by which to mount the table and soap-box, and there he stood eying his oppressors as calmly as if he were witnessing a play.

A murmur arose among the crowd.

A number of natives called to him by name, but he took no notice after that one first steady gaze.
"They're sayin' good-by to him," said Brown, breathing in my ear.
"They're telling him they won't forget him!" The crack of askaris' whips falling on head and naked shoulders swiftly reduced the crowd to silence.

Then the commandant faced them all, and made a speech with that ash-can voice of his--first in German, then in the Nyamwezi tongue.