"Doin' the grand in a distant land,
Ten thousand miles away,"
the truth came to him like a lightning flash, and he half rose, to sit down again, gasping.
"By all that's holy and unholy, by all the gods and little fishes," said Smith, "I've hit it this time."
The Baker, too, though he did not understand, was so taken aback that he stopped in the middle of the verse, and let the wild crowd thunder through it by themselves.
"'Ello!" he cried, "and 'ow the blazes did you learn that 'ere song?"
"Our fathers sang it," said three or four, wondering at his astonishment.
"And 'ow the deuce did they know it?" asked the Baker.
But that was too much for them. Why did these strangers ask such silly questions? Their journey from their far-off tribe had obviously affected their minds.
But just then they heard a cry from across the river, which was answered, apparently, by a sentinel on the bank, and the crowd deserted the fire at once, leaving Smith and the Baker alone. Bill and the other man and the boys took their spears, but without any such haste as would suggest an enemy. And then they heard a wild noise, which sounded strangely like a clamorous "hurrah" repeated angrily.
The women who were in the gunyahs came out, and thronged to the edge of the open space on which the camp stood. Presently the throng split open, and the fifteen warriors, who had left the night before under the command of Big Jack, came through, amidst strange guttural cries and screams of triumph and revenge. The woman whose man had been killed was the only one who did not join in the triumph. She sat moody and alone outside her savage hut, in terrible and inconsolable mourning. Her face was scored with the marks of her own nails, and the blood dried on the wounds made her look as if she were tattooed.