“Ehh! Ehh!” exclaimed the girl at the sneer, “thy girdle is rotted long since with juice!”
“And thine,” shouted the insulted one, who was old for a spinster, “wilt rot with the dryness!”
“Tscch! It is dry for the lord whom I will conquer [pg 78] with magic such as thou hast never dreamed on, O Bayakala!”
“And who is he for whom thou makest magic, O daughter of the hut thatch?” demanded Zalu Zako, stepping from the shelter of the tree.
“Ehh!” ejaculated Bakuma. “I—we do but tickle the fronds (jest), O Chief!”
The only sign of her nervousness was the slight swaying of the gourd of water upon her head as she turned up her eyes to the young chief who regarded her slowly. She edged away. He moved a pace in front of her. She clutched at the amulet around her neck as she turned her eyes and said:
“The cooking fires are low, O Chief, and need be tended.”
“Thy breasts are like unto small anthills,” he said, “and thy belly is as smooth as yonder river rock.”
“Thy tongue is sweeter than the honey of the kinglan tree.”
“Thy voice is softer than the muted lyre and thy nose is formed of two petals of an orchid.”