In the center of the moonlit clearing there stood a larger house than any in the village. The soft beams of light reflected from the bamboo sides of the structure and the heavy dew on the thatched roof glistened like a myriad of fireflies. A wide path led to the porch, and near this there was set a tripod, fashioned of saplings, from which was suspended the little agong the Major had heard during the night.

As they neared the foot of the ladder that served as stairway the Major started violently as two brown forms appeared at their elbows; at a word from Terry they stepped aside to let the two white men pass, one calling softly to a guard stationed at the top of the ladder. The door was thrown open and they mounted the bamboo rungs and entered the house of Ohto.

Pine torches illuminated the room, which was some twenty feet square, roughly sided and floored with bamboo slats; there was no ceiling, so that a quarter of the high-pitched thatching of the house showed overhead. A dozen middle-aged Hillmen stood along the wall, evidently the influential men of the village. Across from them an aged Hillman sat in a rough-hewed, high-backed chair.

Terry advanced and addressed the old man, his whole manner bespeaking a sincere regard and respect; then he beckoned to the Major.

"This is Ohto," he said. "I will interpret for you if he does not understand your dialect."

The Major faced the fine, austere old patriarch. The brown face had been wrinkled bewilderingly by the heavy-handed years, but his eyes still glowed with something of the pride and spirit of his youth. Wrapped in a thick blanket of hand woven kapok, he confronted them with that air of dignity and distinction common to those who from early life have dominated the councils of a community.

The Major silently tendered his gifts. Ohto motioned to one of his retainers and in a few monosyllables ordered their distribution among the people, the red cloth to the women, the beads to the children and the matches to be divided among the young men. As he retained nothing for himself the Major produced a new pocket knife he carried, and bade Terry make Ohto understand that it was for himself. The savage bent his hoary locks over the treasure, examining the mysterious blades that opened and closed at his will, and accepted it as his own.

The Major attempted to address the chief in his scanty Bogobo, stumbled, and turned to Terry beseechingly.

"You tell him, Terry. You know what we've got to say better than I do!"

So Terry spoke, and though the Major did not know it, he continually referred to him as his chief, put all of the fine phrases in his name. The warriors along the wall weighed every word.

Terry told Ohto of their great pleasure in having entered the Hills, and of their appreciation of their reception. He extended the greetings of the White Chief across the waters at Zamboanga, tried to impress him with the interest the White Chief took in the Hill People and of his good will toward them: told of the advantages that would follow intercourse with the lowlands, of the good that would come to his people from contact with others. Finally he dwelt upon the folly of isolation, of the benefits of commerce and schools and other elements of civilization.

The flare of the pitch torches brought out the sincerity of his face. The old chief listened, inscrutably, his unwavering gaze fixed upon the earnest speaker. Before the aged infirmity of Ohto Terry stood in apt symbol of lithe youth.

It was apparent that Ohto did not grasp much of what Terry strove to impart, for the primitive imagination was powerless to understand institutions he could not conceive. He listened gravely but gave no inkling of what went on behind the mask of his wise old eyes.

Terry finished, awaited expression of his decision. For a long time the patriarch remained silent, idly opening and closing the blades of his knife. The Hillmen ranged along the wall, who had listened attentively to Terry's arguments for opening up their country to the outlanders, waited their chief's pronouncement with set faces and gleaming eyes, their brown bodies still as bronze figures.

At last the patriarch raised his head high, so that the snow white hair fell back across his blanketed shoulders. He spoke so slowly that Terry was able to follow him with whispered interpretations into the anxious Major's ear.

"Many rainy seasons have washed my hair white. I live to see strange things—I never thought to see a white man's face within my walls—except, perhaps, upon a spear, grinning.

"When I was born—and no other man or woman of my tribe lives who saw the sun of that far day—they said, the wise men, that much good would come to my people before I died.

"They read it in the stars, they said. No great ill has come, except to my own blood. All gone—wife, sons, grandsons. Never again will the Agong ring for one of Ohto's blood!"

They felt the greater pity because the proud old chieftain demanded no sympathy, but merely stated the pathetic fact with a simple dignity.

He was silent for a time, lost in an old man's memories. Then he turned to one of the four retainers who flanked his chair.

"I am lonely," he said. "I would that Ahma would sit by me."

As the swart Hillman crossed the springy floor and rapped gently upon a closed door, the Major saw that every black eye focussed upon it with eager expectancy. For a moment the room was palpitant with suspense. He looked to Terry for explanation, but turned back at the grinding crunch of the hingeless door which opened to frame a fairer vision than the Major had ever dreamed, asleep or awake.

A white girl had stepped out of the other room and paused a moment against the dark background of the door to sweep the room with big black eyes.

A single piece of white cloth, fringed with bat fur, was draped about her waist and fell below her knee, the ends passing up in front and back of her round body to fasten loosely at the right shoulder. This, with a little sleeveless garment fashioned, bolero-like, out of the delicate bat skins, and a pair of sandals contrived in such a way as to bring the hair of the deer skin against the little feet, was all she wore.

Bronner scarcely realized the symmetry of the slender form, so lost was he in the spell of the dark eyes that plumbed his for one long second, leaving him tingling with a curious conviction that his soul had been bared. Vivid of white skin, of jet eyes, of a mass of midnight hair that hung loose to her waist, she radiated the fire and spirit of vibrant youth.

"God! Such a girl—up here—all these years!" he breathed.

She left the doorway and crossing the room with the light grace of slender, untrammeled limbs, sank down on a bench drawn up at Ohto's side. He set his withered hand contentedly upon the mass of her hair, and in a moment he spoke again.

"If the prophecies of the wise men are to be fulfilled, it must be soon. The good fortune of which they spoke has not come to my people—and Ohto cannot tarry long in wait.... Death calls an old man.

"It may be that the prophecy had to do with the coming of these white men. It may be that it would be better to no longer guard the Hills with balatak and stake and spear and poisoned dart. It may be that our people would be stronger—happier."

Again he halted his slow monosyllables, searching the faces of the Hillmen who waited upon his words: utter devotion and loyalty were apparent in every brown face. Proudly conscious of their fidelity, he regarded them kindly, then his thoughts reverted to the girl at his side, and he gently stroked the lustrous black hair. She sat quiet under the caress, her head bent down in an attitude that revealed the white line from shoulder to throat, her eyes sheltered behind long lashes. At last Ohto raised his head again and when he spoke he gazed straight at Terry.

"Ever since we ... found ... her, this lovely flower has flourished. She now blooms in full blossom in my house—a white orchid on a gnarled old root.

"Before Ohto leaves the Hills he would like to see Ahma safe,—guarded and cherished by one who loves ... and knows. Though not of Ohto's blood, she is of Ohto's heart. I will that when she finds a stronger tree upon which to fasten—the Tribal Agong shall be rung for her."

Astonished out of their racial imperturbability, the Hillmen eyed each other at this departure from the ancient custom of ringing the Giant Agong only for those of chieftain blood. The girl's wide eyes raised to Terry, shifted momentarily to the Major, and lowered.

The old man concluded: "You both speak fair, but I do not know what is best for my people. I do not know.

"We must await a sign to guide us. The Spirit will speak to us through limoÇon or nature, will solve the problem that you have brought to us ... and will decide your fate.

"Until the Spirit speaks, you are safe with us, white men.

"I am weary now."

The venerable savage gathered the blanket more closely about his thin shoulders and closed his eyes as if exhausted. One of the four who stood behind him pointed to the door to indicate that their audience was at an end. As they passed out, the Major turned for a last look at Ahma, who was leading the old man into his room.

In the middle of the clearing he stopped short.

"Say, you forgot to translate what Ohto said after she came into the room!"

Terry smiled whimsically up into the chagrined face: "That's right, I did! But you seemed to lose interest in his words!"

As they made their way through the village Terry explained Ohto's decision, concluding with: "And so he awaits one of their 'signs,' the appearance of the limoÇons, or some freak of weather or natural phenomenon like an earthquake—they read prophecies in everything."

The Major sat down heavily upon the bench. He was genuinely disturbed at this new phase, as he had thought their hazards passed.

"Why," he exclaimed, "that puts us square in the Lap o' Luck! Think of just waiting around for an earthquake or something—or for some darned bird to sing! With the opening up of this country as the stake—yes and our own hides. Sus-marie-hosep!"

Terry had taken his usual seat on the threshold, chin in hand, his face bathed in the light of the moon that now hung high overhead and flooded the mountain top with a friendly glow. The cool night breezes came in strong gusts which rustled the foliage about them.

Calmed by Terry's attitude of quiet confidence and strength, the Major faced their problem coolly, sought a way out. For a while his mind raced with plans, but each died in the minute of inception. He could not influence winds, or induce wild birds to sing in given quarters of the compass, or devise earthquakes. He fell to thinking of Ahma.

Later, observing Terry closely, he asked: "And what are you dreaming about now?"

Terry stirred as though awakened: "Oh, home—mostly."

The Major wanted to talk, but the patient distress in the voice deterred him from what seemed intrusion.

Later he suggested sleep. Terry lighted a torch and stuck it into the doorway, so that while lighting both rooms its fumes carried into the open. The Major discarded shoes and leggings, and wrapping himself in his blanket lay down with his pack as pillow. Terry waited till the Major had disposed himself as comfortably as possible, then extinguished the torch and went into his own room, closing the door behind him.

The Major stared through the dark at the closed door, wondering, as usual, what was going on behind it. Then as a gust of cold wind blew in through the window he snugged down into his blanket.

Another and stronger gust, and he heard the door into Terry's room creak as it swung to the breeze. Looking up, he learned at last.

In the rectangular patch of moonlight which entered Terry's room through a raised window he saw him by the side of the rough slatted cot, kneeling in that most ancient of attitudes, in which the children of all the ages have bowed to supplicate and render homage to the Keeper of the Great Secret.

The Major's eyes moistened. As the last clear phrase reached him he again stood flattened against the wind swept crag—"on the top of the world," and he now understood the "dozen words spoken on another mountain." They came from Terry's lips low, simple, majestic:

"—is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory.... Forever...."