"Verily a sâlak fruit," cried the Chief. "An ugly tree, thorny and thin, are you, but you have borne a pretty, luscious fruit."
The weeders laughed obsequiously.
"How very witty are the words of our Grandfather!" ejaculated Mat Drus, in a voice carefully calculated to reach the ears of his master. The Chief did not even condescend to look at him.
"Dainty Fruit," he said, addressing Mînah, "you are parched by reason of your toil and the heat. Come to my hut yonder, and I will give you delicious sweetmeats to slake the thirst in that pretty throat of yours."
"Don't want to," mumbled the girl.
"Nay, but I bid you come," said the Chief.
"Go, child," urged her mother.
"Don't want to," the girl repeated, edging more close to Dâman, as though seeking his protection.
"What meaneth this?" roared the Chief, whose eyes began to wax red. "Do as I bid, you daughter of an evil mother."
"She is afraid," pleaded Mat Drus in a trembling voice. "Be not wroth, O Grandfather. She is very young, and her fears are heavy upon her."
"May she die violent death!" bellowed the Chief. "Come, I say. Come!"
"Go, child, go," urged all the women in a chorus of frightened whispers; but the girl only nestled closer to her husband.
"Are your ears deaf?" cried the Chief. "Come
