Crowds of friendly natives swarmed along the beach, hoping the kill would be great enough to supply food for all. At other times the Moros would have preserved any surplus fish, but those caught under the influence of macasla cannot be cured or dried, as they soon putrify. The macasla only blinds them temporarily, however, and those fortunate enough to escape soon recover, suffering no ill effects. Ten canoes, full of splendid fish, were the reward of the macasla fiesta. A huge fire was built on the beach, and the small fish, stuffed into green bamboo joints, were thrown in the ashes; larger ones were sprinkled with lombak dust (seasoning) and wrapped in pisang leaves. Weird instruments made their appearance: drums of bell-metal, jew’s-harps of bamboo. The gansas, a flute that the performer plays from one nostril, would have distracted an American’s attention from the music, holding him in suspense, anticipating the dire consequences of a sneeze.
Gradually the monotonous music stirred the savages to action. Solemnly they formed a circle around the fire, arms extended, lightly touching each other’s finger-tips. To and fro they swayed in time to the crude music, and when the drums thundered out a sonorous crescendo, they crouched to the earth, springing up in unison, uttering fearful yells. When the individual dancing commenced, exhausted members began to fall out, leaving the youth and vigor of the tribe to compete for the honors. A maiden must prevent a youth from confronting her; the youth, while attempting to gain his position, must beware lest the maiden present her back to him. Fast and furiously they whirled and dodged, and a shout went up from the bystanders as each unfortunate dancer was compelled to retire. Finally there were only three contestants left; Papita, Piang, and Sicto. Gracefully the little slave girl eluded the boys; slyly she circumvented their attacks. Her little bare feet twinkled daintily about on the sand; her brass anklets jingled merrily; and the fireflies, confined in her hair, glowed contentedly.
Now the hands must be held behind the back at all times during the dance, and when Sicto, exasperated at the girl’s nimbleness, attempted to grab her, Piang protested loudly. A surly growl was Sicto’s response, and during the hot dispute that followed, as the dancers swayed and dodged, Papita caught Sicto off his guard, and to his mortification he found himself contemplating the comely back of the girl. Over her shoulder she taunted the astonished boy, and thunderous applause greeted his defeat. Sicto slunk off into the shadow, muttering maledictions against Piang, whom he blamed primarily for his downfall. Papita, Piang, which would win? Breathlessly the audience followed the agile movements of the two; eagerly they claimed the honors for their favorite.
The music ceased abruptly. With fear in their hearts and bated breath, the tribe waited again for the sound that had disturbed their revelry:
“Le le, li li.” The tribal call rang through the forest faintly.
“Blako ampoen, Allah,” (“I beg for mercy, Allah,”) whispered Kali Pandapatan, supplicatingly.
The call was repeated, came steadily nearer. Finally from the gloom of the river shot a banco, a very old man working at the paddle. It was Pandita Asin from the barrio.
“Un-di?” (“Whither?”) called Kali Pandapatan.
“The barrio—Bal-Bal!” gasped the exhausted old man.
The night pressed upon them. Up the river darted Asin’s slender banco with Kali Pandapatan and a few picked warriors.