Outside, the women were gathering in the plaza, with the children about them, and the men were running from hut to hut, warning their fellows, and arming themselves with spears and swords, and the native bows and arrows.

“They might have waited until we had that army trained,” said Gordon, in a tone of the keenest displeasure.  “Tell me, quick, what do they generally do when they come?”

“Steal all the cattle and goats, and a woman or two, and set fire to the huts in the outskirts,” replied Stedman.

“Well, we must stop them,” said Gordon, jumping up.  “We must take out a flag of truce and treat with them.  They must be kept off until I have my army in working order.  It is most inconvenient.  If they had only waited two months, now, or six weeks even, we could have done something; but now we must make peace.  Tell the King we are going out to fix things with them, and tell him to keep off his warriors until he learns whether we succeed or fail.”

“But, Gordon!” gasped Stedman.  “Albert!  You don’t understand.  Why, man, this isn’t a street fight or a cane rush.  They’ll stick you full of spears, dance on your body, and eat you, maybe.  A flag of truce!—­you’re talking nonsense.  What do they know of a flag of truce?”

“You’re talking nonsense, too,” said Albert, “and you’re talking to your superior officer.  If you are not with me in this, go back to your cable, and tell the man in Octavia that it’s a warm day, and that the sun is shining; but if you’ve any spirit in you,—­and I think you have,—­run to the office and get my Winchester rifles, and the two shot guns, and my revolvers, and my uniform, and a lot of brass things for presents, and run all the way there and back.  And make time.  Play you’re riding a bicycle at the Agricultural Fair.”

Stedman did not hear this last; for he was already off and away, pushing through the crowd, and calling on Bradley, Sr., to follow him.  Bradley, Jr., looked at Gordon with eyes that snapped, like a dog that is waiting for his master to throw a stone.

“I can fire a Winchester, sir,” he said.  “Old Tom can’t.  He’s no good at long range ’cept with a big gun, sir.  Don’t give him the Winchester.  Give it to me, please, sir.”

Albert met Stedman in the plaza, and pulled off his blazer, and put on Captain Travis’s—­now his—­uniform coat, and his white pith helmet.

“Now, Jack,” he said, “get up there and tell these people that we are going out to make peace with these Hillmen, or bring them back prisoners of war.  Tell them we are the preservers of their homes and wives and children; and you, Bradley, take these presents, and young Bradley, keep close to me, and carry this rifle.”

Stedman’s speech was hot and wild enough to suit a critical and feverish audience before a barricade in Paris.  And when he was through, Gordon and Bradley punctuated his oration by firing off the two Winchester rifles in the air, at which the people jumped and fell on their knees, and prayed to their several gods.  The fighting men of the village followed the four white men to the outskirts, and took up their stand there as Stedman told them to do, and the four walked on over the roughly hewn road, to meet the enemy.