Down on his knees went the hairy, dark-skinned Kulki, and presented the flint knife on both open palms.
"Good! Now Dan, you stand close to me and hold out the field glasses where they will impress the natives."
Dick with his zebra skin garments, his crown, flint knife and respectful attendants looked enough like a tribal king to impress Wabiti, who entered the clearing at that moment, following his bodyguard and a procession of young girls ornamented with garlands of flowers. Behind him came his sons, princes of the Gorol tribe, but all of lesser rank than Kulki.
At the sight of Tahara, the new king, who was now ruler of both the tribes, Wabiti fell flat on his face and crawled forward to embrace the young monarch's ankles.
His followers prostrated themselves at the same moment, all but the drummers, who stood to one side beating furiously upon the instruments with their flat hands.
"Tahara, hal!"
The words came from the aged Wabiti in a submissive growling voice from the pit of his stomach. His gray head was almost between Dick Oakwood's feet.
Kulki echoed the words in a ringing shout.
"Tahara, hal! Tahara!"
All the Gorol tribe followed, chanting at the top of their lungs, while the women and girls repeated the words of submission in shrill, piercing voices.