When they carried the limp, lacerated body of Piang to his hut, there was lamenting and weeping in the barrio. Piang, their beloved charm boy was dead. A mournful tilick (death signal) was sounded on the tom-toms, and the wail soon gathered volume until the jungle and river seemed to take up the plaint.
Dead? Could Piang, the invincible, be killed? Papita crouched in the doorway. Kali Pandapatan bent over the still little form. Anxiously he watched the eyelids quiver, the lips part. A sigh of relief broke from the chief, and he murmured softly:
“Little brother, you have the strength of a packda; the cunning of the civet-cat, and the wisdom of the mina-bird. May your days be long.”
A knowing smile flitted across Kali’s face as he caught the irrelevant reply:
Seventh Adventure
The Secret of the Source
There had been a great drought. Plague was sure to follow such weather, and the Moros were already dying of starvation. “Rice, rice!” was the cry, but everywhere the crop had failed, and the natives were desperate.
Piang had been more successful in foraging than the other lads had, and his mother was safe for a time, but there seemed to be no hope, and he sorrowed as he pictured her dying for want of the food that it was his business to provide for her.