All looked at the spot from whence the sound proceeded: Bug-Jargal was standing on the edge of the opening, a crimson plume floating on his head.
“Comrades,” repeated he, “stay your hands!”
The negroes prostrated themselves upon the earth in token of submission.
“I am Bug-Jargal,” continued he.
The negroes struck the earth with their heads, uttering cries the meaning of which I could not comprehend.
“Unbind the prisoner,” commanded the chief.
But now the dwarf appeared to recover from the stupor into which the sudden appearance of Bug-Jargal had thrown him, and seized by the arm the negro who was preparing to cut the cords that bound me.
“What is the meaning of this? What are you doing?” cried he.
Then, raising his voice, he addressed Bug-Jargal: “Chief of Morne-Rouge,” cried he, “what are you doing here?”
“I have come to command my own men,” was the reply.