“That I did,” said Sober-Sides, again rubbing his eyes, “But I can raise a dust myself.”
The fifth encounter was a fight of single sticks between one hundred warriors, fifty on a side.
In a line, the first fifty emerged from the sumachs, their weapons interlocked in a sort of wicker-work. In advance marched a priest, bearing an idol with a cracked cocoanut for a head,—Krako, the god of Trepans. Preceded by damsels flinging flowers, now came on the second fifty, gayly appareled, weapons poised, and their feet nimbly moving in a martial measure.
Midway meeting, both parties touched poles, then retreated. Very courteous, this; but tantamount to bowing each other out of Mardi; for upon Pike’s tossing a javelin, they rushed in, and each striking his man, all fell to the ground.
“Well done!” cried Piko.
“Brave fellows!” cried Hello.
“But up and at it again, my heroes!” joined both. “Lo! we kings look on, and there stand the bards!”
These bards were a row of lean, sallow, old men, in thread-bare robes, and chaplets of dead leaves.
“Strike up!” cried Piko.
“A stave!” cried Hello.