ng bee allowed to gather the honey of its cups. On
dragged the sweltering afternoon. Piang and the dato were the only
ones allowed to know that the branch was still fresh, but only Piang
knew that its flowers had been dipped into a cool stream before it
came to the tribe to foretell its victories or defeats.

"Allah, il Allah!" the call rang through the village. Sunset, the
hour of prayer! Now, now they would know. Solemnly old Pandita Asin
led the chant while the Moros prostrated themselves in supplication,
and the dying sun slipped over the mountains, touching every tree
and flower with its gold.

There was great feasting and celebration in the barrio that
night. Women donned their most brilliant sarongs, tinted their
silver-tipped finger nails with henna, and streaked their brows
with splotches of white rice paste. The men twisted their hair up in
gorgeous head-cloths, and the knot bristled with creeses. Suspended
from their many-colored sashes were barongs, campilans or bolos, and
tiny bells were fastened into the lobes of their ears. The brilliantly
striped breeches seemed likely to burst, so tightly were they drawn
over shapely limbs.

The branch had not withered. It had withstood the scorching rays of
the sun. Kali Pandapatan was invincible.

"Piang!" called Kali Pandapatan.

The noises of the barrio were hushed. Their dato had spoken. The
name was repeated, and gradually the call reached the charm boy,
idly dangling his feet in a clear brook, attracting and scattering
the curious fish. He sprang to his feet, listened, and darted off. His
sleek, well fashioned limbs glistened in the sunlight, and the sarong
that was gracefully flung over one shoulder floated out behind like a
flame fanned by the wind. Twined in his long black hair was a wreath
of scarlet fire flowers; every face brightened as he fled past.

"You have again brought the sign, Piang. When do we fight?" asked
Kali Pandapatan.

"Not until we have delivered the _siwaka_ (tribute) to the sultan at
Cotabato. The fire-tree has not yet bloomed in the enemy's country,
and we may yet pass through safely," Piang replied.

"You have spoken," said the dato and laid his palms on the youth's
head.

Though the latent passion of battle stirred in the Moros' breasts,
they were compelled to heed. Piang had proved a wise charm boy, and
the tribe must obey him. Each season the siwaka must be carried over
the steep, treacherous trail down to the coast, a