gaudily clad youths followed at the heels of their master.
Old Mat Drus and his son Dâman, with three or four women, were squatting near the edge of the jungle, weeding diligently, and as the Chief drew near, Mînah, the girl who had recently married Dâman crept a little closer to her husband.
The Chief halted and stood for a while gazing at the group of toilers. He was a big, burly fellow, of a full habit of body, and well past middle age. He had a large, square, brutal face, garnished with a ragged fringe of beard that proclaimed his Sumatran descent, and his feet and hands were of unusual size. When he spoke his voice was harsh and coarse.
"What is the news, Mat Drus?" he asked, employing the common formula of greeting.
"The news is good, O Grandfather," replied Mat Drus, stopping in his work, and turning submissively toward the Chief. All the rest of the party, squatting humbly in the dust, moved so as to face their master, the womenfolk bowing low their heads to evade the hungry eyes of the Chief.
"Who is this child?" the great man inquired, indicating Mînah with his outthrust chin.
"She is the wife of your servant's son, O Grandfather," replied Mat Drus.
"Whose daughter is she?"
"She is your servant's daughter, O Grandfather," an old and ill-favoured woman made answer, from her place at Mat Drus's elbow.
