“Hear, hear!” growled John Manning.
“Silence in the ranks,” cried the colonel sharply; while, gaining confidence, Cyril’s voice partook somewhat of his leader’s imperious command, as he repeated the words as loudly as he could, so that all might hear.
There was a low fierce murmur from the little crowd, which was now augmented by the bark peelers, who closed the English party up from the rear.
“What do they say?” cried the colonel, taking a step forward, and cocking his piece at the same moment.
“That they will make us prisoners, sir,” said Cyril.
“Who dared say that?” roared the colonel, and taking another step forward, he looked fiercely round, with the result that to a man the Indians bent their heads before him, and not one dared look him in the face.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, “that is better. Now tell them I wish to see the kina gathered and prepared.”
Cyril gave the interpretation of his words, and Diego and an old Indian came humbly forward and laid down their bows and arrows at his feet.
The colonel took a step and planted his foot upon the weapons. Then drawing back, he pointed down.
“Pick them up!” he said sternly in English, and repeated the words in Spanish, when a low murmur of satisfaction arose, and the men stooped, lifted their weapons, and then making deprecating signs, they led the way into the clearing where the cinchona trees had been cut down, and the people had been busy collecting and drying the bark.