"The Master of Wisdom is in the biggest canoe," said Mutaba, pointing out an exceptionally broad craft with a small cabin of boughs built at the widest part.
True to form, the Mahatma had insisted upon his privacy even in a canoe, and his followers had built a bower-like shelter of saplings, vines and flowering plants, in which the sage could sit cross-legged and meditate.
"That beats all!" Dan marvelled. "Old Brains can certainly make the strong-arm boys wait on him! When he says 'jump,' they all step lively."
The Mahatma's canoe was followed by a second, on which his litter was carried. Evidently the sage had no intention of doing any part of the journey afoot.
His vessel kept in the middle of the string of canoes that slid quietly down the stream, for he had figured out that the safest place was where he would be protected from attacks from either direction.
As the fleet moved under the strokes of strong-muscled paddlers, a low-pitched chant arose from the blacks. It floated over the water and the Taharans and the Gorols listened and soon joined in with the melody, though the words meant nothing to them.
But it was clearly a song of battle and raiding, for the eyes of the black men gleamed excitedly and the whites showed as they rolled them while they plied their paddles with energy. The boats sped faster and faster.
By that time the Taharans and the Gorols, unused to the ways of rivers, had learned the simple art of driving the canoes forward with strokes in time to the chant.
The blond warriors bent to it with zest, their great muscles swelling, while the lighter built Gorols tried to outstrip them in clever use of the paddle.
Soon it was developing into a race, and Raal, who was burning with impatience, felt satisfied at last. He could see progress being made. That very day he might be able to rescue Veena from the scoundrels who had captured her.