learn if the time was yet ripe. Into
their midst ran a slim, bronze lad, waving above his head a branch,
almost bare of green, but aflame with crimson blossoms. There was
a hush. Women gathered their children to them; men grasped their
weapons more firmly, and the young boys looked with longing eyes at
the fortunate Piang.

"_Ooola!_" exclaimed Piang. Every lip repeated the word; every knee was
bent, and the tribe lay prostrate at his feet; only old Kali Pandapatan
remained standing, eyeing Piang with satisfaction. For a full two
minutes the crowd remained motionless. The palm-trees whispered and
crackled above them, and the river sent a soft accompaniment to the
jungle music. To and fro above their heads Piang majestically waved
the branch, until finally one bold voice demanded:

"_Anting-anting!_" ("The charm, the charm!") Piang defiantly bared
his breast, exposing the sacred charm suspended from his necklace of
crocodile teeth. There was moaning in the crowd, sobs of excitement,
and protests of impatience, but every head remained lowered until
the august relic was again covered. Piang began to chant in a high,
nasal voice, and the others rose and joined in creating a weird,
monotonous drawl. Like a statue stood the boy, holding the branch
high above his head while they circled round and round him. Faster,
faster they whirled; in a frenzy they shrieked; some fell and others
tramped them in their excitement. Suddenly the boy stamped his feet,
uttering a sharp cry. Every eye turned toward him.

"To the river!" he cried and lead the way. Two boys hurried forward
and were on their knees in a twinkling, hollowing out a place in the
sand, dog fashion. With many incantations and prayers, the branch was
planted in the hole, the damp sand laid carefully around the base,
and the two proud boys left to watch. If the flowers of the fire
tree faded before the scorching sun set, it was destined that the
tribe would be unsuccessful in its ventures for the season; should
the blooms defy the rays of the sun until the dews of evening rested
on its petals, old Kali Pandapatan could sally forth unafraid to meet
his fierce brothers of the jungle.

Patiently they waited through the long, hot day; many eyes were
anxiously turned toward the sacred emblem, but none dared approach. The
little Moro boys, in whose care the branch had been left, squatted in
silent patience. No butterfly was suffered to light on the delicate
petals, no droni