"Terry," he said, awkwardly, "if you don't mind I think I'll run over toward Ahma's house. There is a lot to talk over with her now and I guess I—"
His words were drowned in a resounding crash that blotted out all other sounds. The village shook with the jarring impact of some vast missile striking near, the air filled with the roar of shattering rock and heavy rumble of sliding earth.
The Hillmen bounded upright at the first terrific crash and stood transfixed, witless, superstitious fear written upon every brown face.
A dead silence followed the dying out of the last thunderous echoes, then a child whimpered, another, and the women took up the whining note. A warrior, one of the sub-chiefs from a neighboring village, raised a braceleted arm in astounded gesture toward the crag.
"The Sign! The Sign!" he shouted.
The thousand heads raised as one, and taking up the cry, surged toward the great cone, sifting through the timber like brown seeds through a screen.