“The leading man has plumes in his head.  A chief, I suppose.”

“It is the chief himself, Dick.”

“So it is.  I can make out his Ghoorka knife.  Let’s give him a shout;” and the two sent a loud “coo-ee” ringing down the slope.  The sound reached the ears of the little band of warriors, for they stood to look up; it also reached the people in the village with a startling effect.  The men jumped up from the ground, women snatched up children and scuttled hither and thither like ants disturbed.  From the depths below a cry came up clear and crisp—­the marvellous voice of the native, trained through long centuries to speed a message of war or peace, of victory or disaster, from hill to hill.

“Ohe!  Ohe! my brothers, the chief awaits you.”

“Does he?” said Mr. Hume, dryly.  “Then he may wait until he sends up a proper escort.  Oh, here they come, I suppose,” as half of Muata’s body-guard detached themselves and advanced towards the palm-tree.

“Shall we go down?” said Compton, rising.

“Sit still, my lad.  No chief ever hurries; and, you understand, we are all chiefs.”

“Are we, though?”

“We take rank with Muata, if he is the head chief; not out of pride, you understand, but out of policy.  So just keep cool.  Just look as if you were a sixth-form boy approached by a deputation from the kids.  See?”

“I’ll be as cool and haughty as a——­”

“Freshman in a bun-shop,” interposed Venning.  “Me, too;” and he put on a high and mighty look.

“Don’t overdo it, my boy,” said Mr. Hume, with a grave smile.

There were seven men coming up, and they breasted the slope in single file at a walk which quickly got over the ground.  On reaching the ledge they advanced at a trot up to within a few feet, when they suddenly halted, grounded their spears with a clang, and raised the right hand with the fingers spread.  They were fine lads, straight of limb, supple and lithe, without, however, much show of muscle.  Their quick glances, with a certain quality of wildness in the eyes, ranged over the three seated and silent whites.

“Greeting, O white men from out the forest, and the water beyond, and the father of waters beyond that.”  The spokesman stepped forward.  “Greeting from the great black one, the river-wolf—­he who met the wild man of the woods alone; he who crept in at the gate and slew the man-hunters; he the chief Muata.  Greeting to the lion-killer, the cleaver of heads, the maker of plans, who came out of the mist in a shining boat.  Greeting to the young lions who slew the tree-lion.”

“What is your word?”

“The great chief awaits at the war council.”

“Go down and tell your chief we will descend when we have made war medicine.”

“Wow!” The spokesman fell back into the ranks.  The seven warriors stood for a time in silence; then, at a word from the spokesman, they went through a salute, turned, and marched back in single file, chanting a war song as they went, as an accompaniment to a dancing stride.