"Shui—(who is that)?" a voice called threateningly.
"We are travellers—we require to be shown the road," they called, one after the other, keeping up a perpetual chorus for fear of what would happen if they remained silent.
Rounding the last clump of reeds they saw a village of mud huts. In front of a small open space, on which were piled masses of dried reeds, stood a big fellow stripped to the waist with a formidable jingal in his hand; and at his side were some barking dogs. He was evidently prepared for the worst.
His expression slowly changed as they came in view. The appearance of the wool-dealers, heavily laden with their saddlebags and greatly exhausted by their efforts, was certainly eminently peaceful; and now as their chorus of explanations redoubled, a new-found courage displayed itself in his roughness.
"What talk of seeking a road is this!" he exclaimed angrily. "This is a small poor village surrounded by water, where we risk starvation from year to year and where there is nothing for others."
They answered him in a storm of talk speaking so much of soldiers that fear returned to him.
"If they pursue you it is best for you to proceed quickly," he rejoined, not listening to them. "Here are women and children who cannot be imperilled."
"But the road, the road," they cried. "We cannot fail to pay you your stipulated price."
At the mention of money the reed-cutter rubbed his face with one horny hand.
"Those who ask aid must make it worth while," he declared ambiguously. "I was left here by our folk to protect the households. If I go who is there to insure safety?"