“He’s scared, but doesn’t want to show it,” was Jack’s whispered comment.
Frank nodded, but did not reply. His face was on that of Wimba. He knew the crisis had come. And the prisoner’s words confirmed his belief.
“Bring the voice from the sky, baas,” said Wimba. “The chief says he does not believe, but he is afraid.”
Frank was pale as death. Stepping a few paces in front of Jack, he paused in the middle of the open space before Chief Ruku-Ru’s armchair throne. Then lifting his eyes skyward, as if appealing to some Deity in the brazen vault overhead, he put his fingers between his lips and emitted a piercing whistle. Once, twice, thrice, it shrilled.
Silence.
Over all that assemblage of savage black men, over the group of bearers cowering to one side, awaiting the verdict upon their comrade, over the old gray-haired elders in a knot near the chief, over the tall warriors of the guard with their spears, over the ring of warriors with their shields of painted bullock and elephant hide on the ground before them, over the pushing mass of women and children behind, spread a deathlike silence.
Every eye was lifted in awe. Every face gazed skyward. The words of the white young men as interpreted by Wimba had spread unbelievable amazement. They waited, fascinated, half believing, half terrified, for the voice from the sky which the white men had promised.
Then it came.
From the top of the great council tree apparently boomed out a voice in the Kikuyu tongue. It was a voice unknown to them all. It was a voice the volume of which seemed supernatural. Yet every word was clear. And this great voice cried:
“Oh, Chief Ruku-Ru, great amongst the Kikuyus, I am the spirit invoked by the white men. Their fate is in my keeping. I watch over them and their servants. And I tell you that Wimba is guiltless. Let but a hair of his head be touched and thy village shall be levelled, thy people destroyed by plague, thy cattle die, thy springs dry up. I have spoken. Set Wimba free or these things shall come to pass. It is an order.”