forest came—even your grandmother could not tell you that!"
"But Mu-senyui, do you think that father believes?"
"Ah, I am depending upon that. He will never dare to disobey his doom. And, as you suggest, he is a terrible old man!"
Mpatanasi was nearly through. His lips were livid, and his eyes bulged. He swirled about on the tips of his toes, like a top, and droned and chanted, and the words that came from between his lips were ominous and in bad taste: "Let the king die. At night under the moon the king must prepare his bed of death. Let the king lie upon a mat of straw, and let him take his life with a sharp blade—a very sharp blade. Let the knife be sharp, for it must glisten in the moon, and the king must die! The forest-devil is kind; the forest-devil is generous, and he asks that the king die splendidly, in a manner befitting a king. Let the king offer no complaint, for it is good to die! The king has been a bright sun, and we have worshiped him as a god; but the time for our king's death is at hand, and what is glory but a pinch of dust in the nostrils? What is reverence and what is tribute? The reverence that we pay to a king is but as a drop of water glistening on wet leaves under the sun. The sun takes away the moisture from the leaves, as we withdraw our reverence from the king. And tribute is less than reverence, for it springs from fear, and fear is unworthy of us, and it is unworthy of a king. Let the king die!"
The women who remained took up the chant, and danced wildly under the overhanging lianas, and the king was as good as doomed, as anyone with sense could see.
"He is a terrible old man!" said Mpatanasi's daughter.
"I do not blame you a bit," replied Mu-senyui, who stifled a titter of triumph with his hand. "It has turned out precisely as I had arranged it. You will understand later on why I very nearly died of fright a few minutes ago. I was afraid that he would call the king by name, and that would have spoiled everything!"
"But now there is no danger?"
"There is very little danger. It is true that he may not really believe in the forest-devil at all, but—"
The daughter of Mpatanasi cut him short with a kiss. "Once," she said, "I heard him say, 'There are more things in—'"
Mu-senyui laid his hand across her mouth. "I see that you do not hate me! I am glad. I feared that you would not exactly take to my scheme. And yet there was no other way. He was too intolerant, and he would not even let me kiss you!"
"But I should not advise you to kiss me now! You do not seem to have any sense! Can't you see that he has recovered from his doom and that he is watching us?"
Mpatanasi had indeed recovered. The women had retreated into the forest, and the sun beat shockingly down upon his bare chest and arms. His eyes were bloodshot, and he kept passing his right hand back and forth before his eyes, as if brushing away cobwebs. He knew that he had pronounced an unusually dreadful doom; and he felt sick and weak.
He staggered across the clearing and held out his arms to his daughter. She came close to him and nestled against his hairy chest. "You are very tired," she said, and winked at Mu-senyui.
Mu-senyui laid his hand softly upon the shoulders of Mpatanasi. "It must have been a great strain—but it was necessary. When a king sits about and does nothing but read poetry the state must protect itself! I hope that you remember your exact words: 'Let the king lie upon a mat of straw, and let him take his life with
