Mahmud hesitated a moment, shuddered and grimaced. His eyes narrowed to slits. The captain poked the revolver into his ribs. Mahmud quivered. He fell into a sing-song patter of strange words with whining intonations. Suddenly he ceased.
The girl listened, her gleaming eyes fixed on Mahmud’s face. A sudden question issued from her bruised, cut lips.
“What’s she asking?” demanded Briggs.
“She ask where her mother, sar?”
“Tell her! Tell her I’ve shot the old she-devil to hell, and beyond! Tell her she’ll get worse if she don’t make the canoes stand off—worse, because the sharks will get her alive! Go on, you black scut o’ misery, tell her!”
Mahmud spoke again. He flung a hand at the enveloping half-circle of the war-fleet. The nearest boats now were moving hardly a quarter-mile away. The gleam of krises and of spears twinkled in the sun. Little smoke-puffs all along the battle-front kept pace with the popping of gunfire. In the proa, oily brown devils were laboring to reload the brass cannon.
Mahmud’s speech ended. The girl stiffened, with clenched hands. The sailors, holding her wrists, could feel the whipcord tension of her muscles.
“Tell her to shout to the proa there!” yelled the captain in white fury. “Either they stand off or over she goes—and you see for yourself there’s sharks enough!”
Again Mahmud spoke. The girl grunted a monosyllable.
“What’s that she says?” demanded Briggs.