"She dare not face us!" they screamed. "All tyrants are cowards. Kill her! Let us kill her!"
But Goliba, whom I was gratified to see present and unharmed, sprang upon the daïs, and waving his arms, cried:
"Rather let us first place our valiant young prince upon the Emerald Throne. Let him be appointed our ruler; then let us seek to place the Naya in captivity."
"No," they cried excitedly. "Kill her!"
"Give her alive to Zomara!" suggested one man near me, grimly. "Let her taste the punishment to which she has consigned so many hundreds of our relatives and friends."
Heedless of these shouts, Goliba, stretching forth his hand, led Omar, whose torn clothes and perspiring face told how hard he had fought, towards the wonderful throne of green gems, and seating him thereon, cried:
"I, Goliba, on behalf of these, the people of our great kingdom, enthrone thee and invest thee with the supreme power in place of thy mother, the Naya."
Loud deafening cheers, long repeated, rose from the assembled multitude, and the soldiers dying in the courts outside knew that the revolt of the people had been successful; that right had won in this struggle against might. Then, when the cries of adulation became fainter, and with difficulty silence was restored, Omar rose, and raising his sword, upon which blood was still wet, exclaimed in a loud, ringing voice:
"I, Omar, the last descendant of the royal house of Sanom, hereby proclaim myself Naba of Mo."
Again cheers rang through the vaulted hall, and presently, when the excitement had once more died down, he added, gazing round with a regal air: