“Don’t shoot,” said Ibrahim.
“I am not going to do so,” answered Max, “unless I shoot his nibs here.”
“Who?” asked the Persian, not understanding the slang expression.
Max was about to explain, when a loud whoop was given.
The old woman had fallen forward—dead.
Fright had killed her.
But the savages believed that the white man’s magic had ended the poor, old creature’s life.
Max and Ibrahim were the heroes of the day.
Songs of triumph—in gibberish which might mean anything—dances of the most grotesque kind were indulged in, and it was plain to be seen that these poor savages were nearly mad with joy.
When the excitement was at its height, Max whispered to Ibrahim: