He looked at the dull-brained cook and felt sorry for him. His interpreter, who was standing, appeared to be feeling faint. The gunbearer was quite unperturbed.
Close to a large dead tree, which stood alone in the plain about a hundred yards from where Wrenshaw was sitting, the leader halted and the Barushu began to bunch into knots, talking quietly. Wrenshaw didn't like the look of things. Something must be done, and done quickly. He must make the first move, and lose no time about it.
"Go," he said to the interpreter, "and tell the Barushu that they may pile their assegais against that tree, and after that they may come forward and talk to me."
"Morena, I am afraid."
"So it seems, but what's the matter with your hands, with your coat?"
The interpreter was terrified, and, which was worse, showed it. He fiddled with the buttons of his coat, doing them up, undoing them, and again doing them up. His pale, yellow face had become greenish, his eyes were rolling, and he seemed unable to stand still.
This would never do. Even if the Barushu meant no mischief, such an exhibition of fear wasn't good for them.
"Pick up that log," said Wrenshaw, pointing to a huge piece of wood collected overnight for the fire, "and hold it in your arms."
The frightened man obeyed, he held the log as a woman does a baby.
Wrenshaw turned to the gunbearer, "You go and tell them to stack their assegais and come forward to talk. Don't go too near them, shout from halfway. I have my rifle ready."