Before the guide could reply a loud shout startled them, and next moment they were surrounded by half-naked savages, who brandished their spears threateningly.
Quick as lightning, according to a pre-arranged plan in case of sudden attack, Mark, Hockins, and the negro stood back-to-back, facing in all directions—the first with his gun advanced, the seaman pointing his cutlass at the foe, and Ebony levelling a spear with which he had provided himself, little would their courage have availed them, however, if Ravonino had not been there, for a flight of spears would have ended their resistance in a moment.
“Voalavo, your chief, is my friend,” said the guide, calmly, without putting himself in an attitude of defence, or showing the slightest symptom of alarm. “Is Voalavo with you?”
“Voalavo comes,” they replied, at once lowering their weapons and pointing in the direction of the river, whence proceeded sounds as of the lowing of cattle.
“We have been to visit our enemies,” said one of the party, who, from his tones and bearing, appeared to be a leader. “We have smitten them, and we have brought away their cattle.”
As he spoke another native was seen approaching. He was a large burly jovial-looking man, somewhere about forty years of age, armed with a spear and enveloped in the native lamba, a garment used much in the same way as the Scottish plaid, which it resembled in form, though of much lighter material. The ornamentation of this garment proclaimed the wearer a person of distinction, and the evident satisfaction that beamed on his broad jovial countenance when he recognised and greeted Ravonino showed that it was Voalavo himself—the chief of the village they were approaching.
“I’m sorry to see,” said the guide, after the first few words of salutation, “that my friend still delights in war and robbery.”
“Don’t be sorry, friend, don’t be sorry,” returned the chief with a hearty laugh, as he gave the other a slap on the shoulder. “Sorrow does no good. It only puts water in the eyes and makes them red. Look at me—just returned from ‘war and robbery,’ and as happy as a squirrel. If a man does not delight in war and robbery, what is there in the world to delight in? If I am not sorry why should you be? If you can’t help it—then laugh at it and try to enjoy your sorrow. That’s the way I do. It suits me. I grow fat on it!”
He certainly did grow fat—if not on laughing at sorrow, certainly on something else—and his followers, although respectfully silent, showed by their smiling faces that they sympathised with their chief’s hilarious mood.
“But where did you fall in with the white men?” asked Voalavo, turning suddenly towards Mark and Hockins, who stood listening with interest and curiosity to the rapid flow of his unintelligible talk. “Such pale flowers do not grow in our forests!”