But meanwhile, partly to encourage their followers, partly to dismay those they had come to attack, the three leaders rushed wildly to and fro before the opening to the fort, brandishing their stone axes, grimacing horribly, putting out their tongues, and turning up their eyes, till only the whites were visible.
“It’s that ’ere which makes me think they won’t fight,” said Jem, as he and Don watched the scene intently.
“Don’t talk, Jem. See what they are going to do. Are we to shoot if they do attack?”
“If you don’t they’ll give it to us,” replied Jem. “Oh, what a row!”
For at that moment there was a terrible and peculiar cry given from somewhere behind the little army, and the three men gave place to one who rushed from behind. The cry was given out three times as the man indulged in a similar set of wild evolutions to those which had been displayed by the three leaders, and with his eyes showing only the whites, he too thrust out his tongue derisively.
“If I was only near enough to give you a chop under the chin!” grumbled Jem.
Then he grasped and cocked the pistol he held, for the chief in front suddenly began to stamp on the ground, and shouted forth the beginning of his war-song.
Up leaped the whole of the enemy, to shake their spears as they yelled out the chorus, leaping and stamping with regular movement, till the earth seemed to quiver. The acts of the chief were imitated, every man seeming to strive to outdo his fellows in the contortions of their countenances, the protrusion of their tongues, and the way in which they rolled and displayed the whites of their eyes.
There was quite a military precision in the stamping and bounding, while the rhythm of the wild war-song was kept with wonderful accuracy.
“Feel scared, Mas’ Don?” whispered Jem.