Out they came, two of them—the interpreter and (as I had rather expected) the big sorcerer man who had worn the crown of paradise plumes. They motioned that we should lay down our arms, while they laid down their clubs and spears, and this being done, the interpreter and the sorcerer came forward.
“You have guns that bite badly in your belts,” said the interpreter. “We thought you had none, because there were no long sticks such as the white men’s guns usually have. But you have good guns; we shall not fight you any more.”
“Very kind of you,” I said.
“All the same,” continued the interpreter, “we will not let you go unless we like. There is a way down, but you will never find it if we do not tell you about it. If we do not tell, you will stay here till you die, and the wild pigs and dogs will come and tear your tongues out and eat your throats.”
“What do you want?” I asked, guessing the answer before it came.
“This sorcerer, who is a very great chief, wants your charm. If you give it you can go, and we will give you sweet potatoes to take with you.”
“Get the sweet potatoes and we will talk more,” I answered, being willing to gain time. The men disappeared.
“What do you think of that, Marky?” I said, translating.
“I think it is damn presumptuous cheek,” replied that nobleman, trying to smooth his hair with his pocket-handkerchief and ruefully feeling his bristly beard. “What a species of an object I shall be if we get to that station!”
“Well, it does seem as if the diamond landed us in a fix everywhere we go,” I remarked. “What on the living earth are we going to do?”