“What is the war medicine we are to make, sir?”

“Just the remains of our breakfast and supper, with a dose of quinine to finish up.”

“And those chaps will be telling the people down below that we are making strong medicine, warranted to kill Hassan at sight, and ward off spears, bullets, mosquitoes, and Arab swords.”

“Well, it will give them courage, if they think all that,” said Mr. Hume, coolly, as he inspected the rations.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FIGHT IN THE DEFILE

In the afternoon, having hidden away the reserve ammunition, they at last went down to the war council assembled under the tree in the village.  Mindful of the instructions of Mr. Hume, the two boys were quite self-possessed and incurious, though it was a great effort to restrain expressions of surprise when they were face to face with Muata.

If they were under the necessity to play a part, so in a greater measure was he.  The men about him were a mixed lot—­of adventurers who had been compelled to seek a harbourage from revengeful enemies, of fugitives who had escaped from the slave gangs—­and they were of several tribes.  Only a strong hand could keep them in order, and Muata could not afford for a moment to sacrifice his authority.  He was master in that valley, or nothing.  Hence he received the greeting of his old white friends without a sign of cordiality.

His naturally fine face was hideous in war-paint, two lines of yellow extending to his ears from the comers of his mouth, and another black line running from the centre of the forehead down between the eyes.  Two long black feathers were secured in his head circlet, and about his throat he wore a necklace made of the teeth of the gorilla and the claws of a lion.  His eyes were fierce and bright, and the quivering of his nostrils showed also that he was labouring under suppressed excitement.  Mr. Hume recognized at once that he was face to face with a crisis, and instinctively he realized that it depended on him to save the situation, not only for himself and his young companions, but for Muata also.  His calm eyes travelled over the ring of black faces behind the chief.  He saw there were two parties.  On one side were the young warriors, men of the chiefs age, who probably had been brought up in the valley; on the other was a larger number of older men, whose lowering looks told a tale of distrust and incipient revolt.

“Behold,” he said, making up his mind to the role he would play, “we are the chief’s ‘white men.’  We have made strong medicine.  Shall I speak, O black bull of the forest?”

“Speak,” said Muata, who had caught the hunter’s eye when he acknowledged himself to be the chief’s white man.

“Thus says the medicine,” said the hunter, in his deep tones.  “There are wolves on the way to eat up the people of this place.”

“Eh—­hum!” sneered the older men.  “We know.”