When the tumult had subsided, the amazed Major wheeled to face Terry’s quizzical grin.

“Well, Major,” he said, “there is their merry little ‘sign’! The darn thing worked!”

The Major pulled him toward the door. “Come on,” he exclaimed. “Let’s see what happened.”

He hurried down the short ladder ahead of Terry and raced through the strip of woods to where the mob was packed about the base of the cone. The Major smashed an unceremonious pathway through the brown jam and in a moment they stood at the foot of the crest.

A large segment of the huge pillar of rock had broken off and in falling had carried thousands of tons of shale and eroded stone. The immense rock, whose fracture and fall had precipitated the slide, lay directly under the Tribal Agong, at which the Hillmen were staring up, dumfounded.

Following their upward gaze the Major saw that the fallen stone had formed the platform beneath the Agong, which now pivoted on its granite bracket over a cliff which fell sheer for hundreds of feet before curving into the stiff slope where crag fused into tableland. The great black gong hung directly over them. Looking closely, Bronner saw that it swung slowly in the evening breeze, and moved by the same impulse that had impelled him the first time he stood beneath it, he shouldered their way through the crowd to a safer position.

“You need not worry about its falling, Major. It will hang there for a thousand years.”

“I know it, but it gets me just the what’s that they’re yelling?” he exclaimed, as a swelling chorus of guttural shouts rose from the excited throng.

“They are saying that the Tribal Agong can never be sounded again without the platform they can’t reach it.” As a new phrase was caught up and repeated by hundreds of voices he added: “And now they are calling for Ohto to interpret the sign!”

Several of the older savages tore out of the densely packed throng and sped toward Ohto’s house. In a few moments one of them returned and announced that the chieftain would arrive shortly. The two white men, absorbed in the drama, did not notice that four of the warriors who had summoned Ohto had returned by another path and taken up their position behind the captives, spears in hand, grim.

Ohto advanced slowly through the trees and emerged into the open space about the crag. The Hillmen gave way respectfully and he walked to the base of the cone through a wide lane opened up for his passage. Age slowed his steps but he walked erect, his head held high in simple dignity and gratitude for the silent homage his people offered.

Pausing near the base he surveyed the evidences of cleavage of the ancient rock, the tribe’s historic rallying point. Then he raised his eyes to the Agong.

The dense circle of Hillmen bated their breath while the beloved patriarch communed with the spirits of the long line who had heard the happy song of the bronze-lipped gong. A deep hush pervaded the plateau, now lighted with the last white rays of the dipping sun.

The sage turned to his people, his furrowed face burdened with an added melancholy. His voice came low and weak, so that the assemblage bent forward in strained silence to hear his fateful words. Terry gripped the Major’s arm, whispering the translation.

“Listen, my children. We asked for guidance, and a sign is sent to the east of Ohto’s lodge a happy omen.

“The breaking of this age-old stone betokens the breaking of our ancient custom ... no longer will we bar the stranger from the Hills ... and those who are with us now may go in peace, or stay in peace.”

He paused, and a great sigh of relieved suspense rose from the throng. The four armed men left their position behind the two white men and melted into the dense circle.

Terry gave the Major’s arm a last ecstatic squeeze. “It’s working out just as we planned! I’ll be back soon.”

He raced through the trees toward Ohto’s house, returning in a couple of minutes to find Ohto still standing with bowed head before his people.

A rustle of whispers roused him, and he raised his silvered head to behold the loveliness of his stolen foster-child. Summoned by Terry, Ahma had come out of the shadows of the trees and stood at the forest end of the lane made for Ohto’s passage through the crowd.

The old man extended his hand toward her in compelling gesture and she went to him with the agile swiftness of a half-wild thing. A moment he lightly stroked the rippling mass of hair, then he turned to his people again.

“Ohto said that the Tribal Agong would ring for the marriage of this white daughter of our tribe but now

They followed his sadly expressive gaze to where the gong hung far out over the cliff, inaccessible to human touch.

“Daughter, it will be rung for you ... somehow.... Ohto has said it. I hope to live to hear it rung ... when you have found him who is to share your house and after that, I do not care.”

He paused again lost in a patriarch’s vague memories of other years. Retrieving his vagrant thoughts, he caught the frank message of the upturned face, a message which startled as it pleased him.

“Ah! You have found him, then? Let him step forth.”

Ohto searched every brown face in the hushed circle, but none stepped forward.

Ahma slowly turned her head toward where the two white men stood apart, her eyes fastened upon Major Bronner. Terry gently pushed him forward. Trembling, his tanned face bloodless, the Major advanced and took her outstretched hand.

Ohto studied the Major, then turned to Terry. For a long moment he searched the lad’s strong face, a deep disappointment in his own, before he again faced the two before him.

“I had not thought of this. But it will do. It is as it should be white will be happier with white. But ... will she stay until Ohto joins his fathers?”

The Major hesitated, then answered the sadly anxious question with a nod. He had no voice.

“Then she is yours ... after you have found a way to ring the Tribal Agong for her marriage. Ohto never spoke in vain. Ring the Agong first.”

The Major’s glance swept from Ahma to the lofty gong. His triumphant joy gave way to deepest dejection. He saw no way to fulfil the chief’s requirement, and he turned despairingly to Terry, who had shouldered through the crowd and stood beside him.

The Hillmen had accepted Ohto’s interpretation unquestioningly. Their chief had spoken. The unexpectedness of the new phase, the avowal of love by the tribe’s adopted daughter for one of the outlanders, had appealed to the keen sense of the dramatic that is shared by all primitive peoples. Their brown skins coppered by the rosy glow of the setting sun, they stood in strained suspense awaiting the climax.

All but Pud-Pud. He jostled an avenue through the innermost ring of Hillmen and leaped out in front of Terry, brandishing a short blow tube he carried and laughing in shrill derision.

“Ya, white men! Now ring the Agong! Ring the Agong and get your woman! I saw! I watched! And I laughed because I knew the Agong would never ring again! Yeah! Now ring it!”

The Major was in no mood for finesse: with a vicious shove he sent the vindictive Pud-Pud sprawling, then turned to Terry, worriedly.

“What are we going to do?”

Terry shook his head, at a loss. This was a contingency he had not foreseen. He glanced penitently at the melancholy girl, at the old man who waited, swept the circle of tense faces, then resumed his hopeless contemplation of the gong overhead.

Swiftly Ahma broke the tableau. Dropping the Major’s hand she darted forward to where Pud-Pud had risen to his knees, her white foot flashing up to dash from his lips the blow tube he leveled at Terry. The venomous dart sped aimlessly into the air and fell outside the ring of Hillmen.

Pud-Pud’s violation of the sanctity of council roused Ohto to a wrath terrible to see. All of the savagery, all of the unbridled fury of a primitive, passionate nature mounted to his wrinkled face as he pointed to the culprit with a majestic gesture that summoned the four armed men. At a word they hustled the terror-stricken savage away to await Ohto’s judgment.

Ahma calmly returned to the Major’s side and together they resumed their hopeless contemplation of the Agong. He peered up till his neck ached.

“Terry,” he whispered, “to ring it you have to strike that little knob in the center, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Then inspiration shone in the Major’s face. He eyed Terry covertly.

“Wish we had a rifle,” he suggested.

Terry caught his meaning. He fingered his holster but shook his head. “It can’t be done, Major.”

“Sure it can sure you can! I’ve seen you shoot!”

Terry shook his head but the excited Major insisted: “Try it. Rest your gun on my head. Sure you can do it and think what it will mean the Hills opened up for all time think what it will mean to the Governor and to the Service!”

The hushed crowd stiffened as they saw the two white men draw back a hundred feet, wondered as to the character of the strange black thing the smaller drew from his leather pocket. They watched intently, thinking to see sorcery wrought before their eyes.

Terry cocked the weapon and resting his wrist upon the tall Major’s head, sighted carefully. A thousand pairs of eyes focussed upon him. Could the slim white man ring the gong by pointing a magic finger?

The Major, braced for the shock of explosion, felt the iron wrist tremble, grow limp and lift away. He wheeled around to find Terry shaking his head, uncertain, faltering. He slowly holstered the gun.

“Major, I keep thinking how I have deceived this fine old man,” he said.

The Major stared at him, then exploded: “By making this ‘sign’ that saved your life and mine? Sus-marie-hosep! Ive heard of those New England consciences but Sus-marie-hosep!”

Disgust, dismay, affection swept in succession across the Major’s countenance: affection held. He laid his hand upon Terry’s shoulder as he played his ace:

“Terry, I thought you had a date in Zamboanga on the twenty-sixth!”

The crowd then saw the white youth stiffen with swift decision, saw him whirl to face the crag. For a moment he stood with eyes riveted upon the Agong till the little knob swung toward him, then he bent slightly at the knees and his hand swept back with a swiftness that seemed to bring the pistol leaping to meet the extended arm. It raised to the darkening sky, and the Hills awoke to the resounding crash of white man’s weapons. Six times Terry shot, but only the first two reports were heard, for the others were swallowed in the booming of the Agong.

The sound beat down deafeningly, seemed to enfold them bodily in its mighty volume, blotting out all else. From the sounding board of cliff it smote upon their ears in thunderous, sustained, musical tone. Slowly, the note lessened in volume, deepened, and tumbled down in vibrant waves that rolled on and on. The sonorous reverberations died out, then surged again and again in ever fainter, ever deeper tones.

At last the air quieted, and nothing but the roaring in his ears remained to convince the Major that the vast sound had been reality. “Jimmy!” he exploded. “What a noise and what shooting!”

A whisper of awe rustled through the surrounding ranks. Ignorant of firearms, they thought the young American wielded some uncanny power with his black weapon. Already distinguished as the first white man to set his foot upon Apo, he was now regarded with a feeling akin to worship.

Ohto was silent, lost in a protracted, inscrutable study of Terry’s face. At last the old man turned on his heels to sweep the circle of his people for confirmation of his surmise. Satisfied, he raised his hand for silence.

“There has been worry ... doubt ... among you who should take up Ohto’s burden when he lets it fall ... soon. You are entering new times, will meet new and strange things. To Ohto it seems best that he leave his people under the guidance of a young and strong and kind chief who knows all these strange things ... one who can lead you safely into the new life. What say you, my people? Who shall sit in Ohto’s chair when he is gone?”

For a moment the multitude was silent as the significance of Ohto’s query sank into their slow minds, then a murmur of approval rose among them, swelled into a deafening shout of acclamation.

“The pale white man! The pale white man!”

Terry understood. Uncertain, he turned to the Major, but Ohto interrupted by addressing him directly.

“You have heard. When Ohto leaves and it can not be long he leaves his people in your hands. You will be patient, kindly, gentle, with them. That Ohto knows ... it is written in your face.”

As Terry slowly bowed his head slightly in acceptance of the trust, the delighted Hillmen stirred, whispered to each other. The hum of voices grew louder but was instantly hushed by the dramatic gesture with which Ohto extended his arm toward a low cotton tree that stood at the edge of the woods. The thousand eager heads turned almost as one.

Upon a slender leafless branch which extended at right angles from the trunk of a kapok tree two large gray wood pigeons had perched side by side in the close communion of mated birds, heedless of the host below them. Unafraid, tired, content with what the day had brought them in the lowlands, they were happy in safe return together to their mountain home.

In the hush which followed recognition by the throng, the limocons moved closer to each other, wing brushed wing, sleepy lids lowered over soft eyes to shut out the crimson glory of the dying sun. Then the little throats throbbed as they voiced gratitude to their Creator in gentle, low pitched notes, lilting with the joy of life, plaintive with the brevity of its span.

The sweet song died with the day, and as dusk reached down in brief embrace of tropic earth, the birds winged side by side into the darkening forest.

Peace settled upon the face of the old man who had made decision vitally affecting the welfare of the people over whom he had ruled for two generations. The limocons had sung in the East. His fathers were pleased with him.

A shout of fierce joy burst from the Hillmen. Then the women surrounded the dainty white girl and bore her off to prepare for the long ceremony with which the Hill People give in marriage. And the two friends walked through the woods, arm in arm, silent, profoundly humble.