Once again the group dissolved itself. And as the frightened people huddled in their huts the voice of Choflo, raised in incantations and accompanied by the rattle of charms floated out over the still night air. After a time the sounds were hushed.
The silence was ominous. The suspense was awful. Now as never before did terror enter the hearts of the Indians cowering and trembling in their dark hovels. The white feather was on its way to announce the fateful selection of the Great Spirit as interpreted by Choflo, headman, sorcerer and oracle of the simple-minded Cantanas.
CHAPTER VII
The White Feather
Scarcely had the sun risen on the morning following the appearance of the Black Phantom when the encampment was astir, for each was eager to discover whether or not he had been selected for the perilous task of slaying the mysterious visitor. The men stole out of their shelters just as the rays of the brilliant orb bathed the level sea of green treetops of the Amazonian jungle with a flood of roseate light, and scanned the sand in front of their doorways.
Oomah found the symbol, a tuft of snowy, drooping aigrettes that quivered and glistened at the slightest touch. And he stood reverently gazing at the sacred object until Choflo’s drum, followed by the sound of his voice bade the men gather in solemn conclave.
“Upon Oomah has fallen the mission of saving the earth from a terrible end,” the sorcerer said gravely, “and the selection of the Great Spirit has been a wise one.”
“But, am I worthy to be entrusted with such a holy undertaking?” Oomah asked incredulously, holding the plumes in his hand.