"What does it mean?" whispered she at last. "Are they dead?"
"They are really there, then? By George, I thought I was dreaming. Tennys, they are actually doing us homage."
"Then they are harmless," she cried joyously.
"I believe I could go down and cut off their ears without hearing a protest."
"But you won't, will you?"
"It would be barbarous, totally uncalled for, I'm sure. I can't understand their warlike appearance, though. Those fellows look as if they were out for blood."
"Perhaps they are at war with some other tribe and not with the white people. My hus--Lord Huntingford says they fight among themselves incessantly."
"That's it. It is a band of foragers, no doubt. But what are we going to do about it?" Hugh was nonplussed. The brown backs and bobbing heads still stretched before them in almost comical humbleness.
"It may be a trick."
"It stands us in hand to remain where we are until we know what they intend to do next."