"I hope they'll get up and go away."
"I guess I'll yell down and ask them what they want."
"I wouldn't, Hugh," she entreated. "If we leave them alone, they may go away presently." He looked at her and laughed, for he was growing less uneasy with each passing moment.
"Hey, there!" he yelled. "How are you?"
Slowly the head-bobbing ceased and dark faces were lifted toward the elevation. For the first time the newcomers saw the beautiful face of Lady Tennyson. They struggled to their feet, the tall chief stepping forward with outstretched arms. Then in some wild gibberish he began to speak, half to the white witnesses, half to the sky and sun.
"What the dickens is he talking about?" murmured the mystified American. "Perhaps he's asking us to surrender."
"He is either appealing to the sun or praying to the sky," said his companion.
"I have it!" cried Hugh. "He thinks we are angels." Despite the gravity of the moment she giggled delightedly.
"Then we may as well sit down and await developments," she said a moment later, as they observed the whole band go face downward on the sand again--all save the chief. The white people seated themselves on the ledge and watched the impassioned jabberer. Presently the prostrate figures arose and in mute submission spread forth their arms and bent their heads, standing like bronze statues in the glaring sunlight, all to the increased astonishment of those who had expected to become victims of their torture.
"This beats all I ever knew," exclaimed Ridgeway. "It begins to look as though they are either friendly or afraid of us. What shall we do?"