“Great Great One! Voice of the Wise!” he cries. “Thy children hear thee. They are brought even unto death. The scourge which Makiwa has brought upon them strikes hard. It is striking their cattle down by scores already. There will be no more left.”
There is a pause. With outstretched arms in the moonlight, the mediator stands motionless, awaiting the answer. It comes:—
“There will first be no more Makiwa.”
A heave of marvel and suppressed excitement sways the crowd. There is no misunderstanding this oracular pronouncement, for it is in the main what all are there to hear. Shiminya goes on.
“Oh, Great Great One, the land is burned dry for lack of rain, and thy children die of hunger. Will the land never again yield corn?”
“Makiwa has laid his hand upon it;” and the dull, hollow, remorseless tone, issuing from the darkness, now seems swept by a very tempest of hate, then replies, “Remove the hand!”
Sticks are clutched and shields shaken to the accompaniment of a deep growl of wrath forced from between clenched teeth.
“Remove the hand!” runs in a humming murmur through the multitude. “Ah, ah! Remove the hand!”
Again, with hollow boom, the Voice rolls forth.
“Even the very skies are darkening. Behold!”