As they pursued these ferocious antics, the sight made the white men’s blood curdle, for they thought that this must be the prelude to a rush upon themselves.
The “Corroboree,” as they afterwards found was the right name for this peculiar form of black-fellow recreation, waxed louder and fiercer, each man working himself up to a perfect frenzy, now darting in and out of the fires, and even in some cases plunging into them, and scattering the blazing embers, till exhausted, they would here and there “fall out” and beat time to recover.
Their aspect appeared terrible and unearthly, the brothers were spell-bound, not knowing whether fury or joy was the cause of this extraordinary scene. Then the infernal din died away, only to be renewed louder than ever, as fresh warriors took the places of those pumped out, until the exhibition reached, as it seemed, a fight in terrible reality, as man closed with man, fending off each other’s spears and clubs with their “yelamans,” showing surprising feats of agility as they sprang high into the air, shouting fiercely a sort of war-cry the whole time.
The ceremony was brought to a close by all stamping their feet with heavy thuds on the ground, and then each coiled himself up by his fire, exhausted.
Our foresters breathed again.
“Well, if they ain’t the most bloodthirsty-looking devils I ever seed,” said Tim; “but I suppose it’s all sham; the women don’t dance, and ain’t painted, they’re what’s called the ‘Orkistry’ in the playhouse, I suppose.”
“Just about a rum go,” joined in Mat; “I reckon we’re all right to sleep now, though.”
It was about midnight when the whole camp had retired to rest, so the brothers followed the general example.