“H'yemba!” cried he. “What is your speech with me, your master?”
“Master?” sneered the smith again. “My slave! Power has passed from you to me. From you, who speak the false, who entrap us here to suffer and die, who slay and ruin us, to me, who will yet lead the people back to their far home, to safety and to life!”
“You lie, hound!”
The smith laughed bitterly.
“That shall be seen--who lies!” he gibed. “But now power is mine. I have your son in my hand. Move only and I fling him from the cliff!”
Allan felt his brain whirl; all things seemed to turn about him. But he fought off his faintness, and in a shaken voice once more demanded:
“What terms, H'yemba?”
“Slavery for you and yours! Your son shall be my serf; your woman my chattel! Ha, that woman! She has already fought me, like one of these strange woods-beasts you have made us kill! See! My hair is burned and my flesh blistered with her fire-beating! But when I hold her in these hands then she shall pay for all, the vuedma!”
Stern's hand twitched, with the automatic gripped in the fingers, but the blacksmith cried a warning.
“Raise not that hand, slave!” he ordered. “You cannot shoot without the danger of killing this vile spawn of yours! And remember, too, the river lies far below, and very sharp are the waiting rocks!