"Come out to me, O killer!" he said softly, "for who am I that I can injure you? Did I not hear some voice say g'la, and is not g'la the name of a fool? O, wise and brave men of the Akasava who sit there quietly, daring not so much as to hit a finger before one who is a fool!"
Again the silence fell. Bones, his helmet on the back of his head, his hands thrust into his pockets, came a little way down the hill towards the semi-circle of waiting eldermen.
"O, brave men!" he went on, "O, wonderful seeker of danger! Behold! I, g'la, a fool, stand before you and yet the killer of B'chumbiri sits trembling and will not rise before me, fearing my vengeance. Am I so terrible?"
His wide open eyes were fixed upon the uncle of B'chumbiri, and the old man returned the gaze defiantly.
"Am I so terrible?" Bones went on, gently. "Do men fear me when I walk? Or run to their huts at the sound of my puc-a-puc? Do women wring their hands when I pass?"
Again there was a little titter, but M'gobo, the uncle of B'chumbiri, grimacing now in his rage, was not amongst the laughers.
"Yet the brave one who slew——"
M'gobo sprang to his feet.
"Lord," he said harshly, "why do you put all men to shame for your sport?"