"Don't overdo it, my boy," said Mr. Hume, with a grave smile.
There were seven men coming up, and they breasted the slope in single file at a walk which quickly got over the ground. On reaching the ledge they advanced at a trot up to within a few feet, when they suddenly halted, grounded their spears with a clang, and raised the right hand with the fingers spread. They were fine lads, straight of limb, supple and lithe, without, however, much show of muscle. Their quick glances, with a certain quality of wildness in the eyes, ranged over the three seated and silent whites.
"Greeting, O white men from out the forest, and the water beyond, and the father of waters beyond that." The spokesman stepped forward. "Greeting from the great black one, the river-wolf—he who met the wild man of the woods alone; he who crept in at the gate and slew the man-hunters; he the chief Muata. Greeting to the lion- killer, the cleaver of heads, the maker of plans, who came out of the mist in a shining boat. Greeting to the young lions who slew the tree-lion."
"What is your word?"
"The great chief awaits at the war council."
"Go down and tell your chief we will descend when we have made war medicine."
"Wow!" The spokesman fell back into the ranks. The seven warriors stood for a time in silence; then, at a word from the spokesman, they went through a salute, turned, and marched back in single file, chanting a war song as they went, as an accompaniment to a dancing stride.
"What is the war medicine we are to make, sir?"
"Just the remains of our breakfast and supper, with a dose of quinine to finish up."
"And those chaps will be telling the people down below that we are making strong medicine, warranted to kill Hassan at sight, and ward off spears, bullets, mosquitoes, and Arab swords."