she came to know it.
She had a white towel tied to a walking-stick. This was a flag of truce,
and she waved it, in the hope that the Indians would know what it was.
Apparently they did--for one who was browner than the others stepped
forward.

"Ye seek a pow-wow?" he said in excellent English. "I am Golden Eagle,
of the mighty tribe of Rock-dwellers."

[Illustration: "Ye seek a pow-wow?" he said]

"And I," said Anthea, with a sudden inspiration, "am the Black
Panther--chief of the--the--the--Mazawattee tribe. My brothers--I don't
mean--yes, I do--the tribe--I mean the Mazawattees--are in ambush below
the brow of yonder hill."

"And what mighty warriors be these?" asked Golden Eagle, turning to the
others.

Cyril said he was the great chief Squirrel, of the Moning Congo tribe,
and, seeing that Jane was sucking her thumb and could evidently think of
no name for herself, he added, "This great warrior is Wild Cat--Pussy
Ferox we call it in this land--leader of the vast Phiteezi tribe."

"And thou, valorous Redskin?" Golden Eagle inquired suddenly of Robert,
who, taken unawares, could only reply that he was Bobs--leader of the
Cape Mounted Police.

"And now," said Black Panther, "our tribes, if we just whistle them up,
will far outnumber your puny forces; so resistance is useless. Return,
therefore, to your land, O brother, and smoke pipes of peace in your
wampums with your squaws and your medicine-men, and dress yourselves in
the gayest wigwams, and eat happily of the juicy fresh-caught
moccasins."

"You've got it all wrong," murmured Cyril angrily. But Golden Eagle only
looked inquiringly at her.

"Thy customs are other than ours, O Black Panther," he said. "Bring up
thy tribe, that we may hold pow-wow in state before them, as becomes
great chiefs."

"We'll bring them up right enough," said Anthea, "with their bows and
arrows, and tomahawks and scalping-knives, and everything you can think
of, if you don't look sharp and go."

She spoke bravely enough, but the hearts of all the children were
beating furiously, and their breath came in shorter and shorter gasps.
For the little real Red Indians were closing up round them--coming
nearer and nearer with angry murmurs--so that they were the centre of a
crowd of dark cruel faces.

"It's no go," whispered Robert. "I knew it wouldn't be. We must make a
bolt for the Psammead. It might help us. If it doesn't--well, I suppose
we shall come alive again at sunset. I wo