As he spoke, the Englishman observed almost concealed behind those in the enclosure, the old African. He was bent now, and as the silent assembly fell back to give the grizzled savage space, the white man saw that all he had said had been heard and understood. Two women supported the ruler of Timbado. Shaking them aside, he felt his way to the gate on his cane.
“White man come—white man go. No come—no go more.”
“The great thief Cajou hears,” interrupted the unmoving man in white. “To-night, the white man brings fetich; to-night, out of the sky, he brings death to those who steal and lie and to the women and children of those who lie—”
The tottering chief lunged forward on his stick as if to grasp the white man. But the latter did not move.
“Cajou no thief,” snarled the black. “Him no white man pearl.”
Throwing his head back, the Englishman placed his hands to his mouth and called loudly into the now shadowed night.
“Come, Bird of Death,” he cried. Then, with a sweep of his right arm toward the south, he shouted: “Behold!”
Sweeping majestically toward the palm totems out of the already starry night, came an object with the whirr of a flock of vultures. Like a great bird, the descending shape already spread its monstrous wings over the black pool. Its long tail could be seen moving against the starry sky, while the eyes and throat of its far-extended head seemed to belch fire and smoke.
Back upon each other crowded those about Cajou. Alone stood the old man, shaking and aghast. Then out of the mouth of the giant bird came a cry of rage and the hiss of a snake. Wails and cries of fear rent the air; groveling on their knees, the occupants of the stockade tried to hide their heads; even the great black threw himself behind the wall. Then the angry blood-red eyes of the Bird of Death struck toward the group, and even the doughty Cajou reeled backward.