It was a serious moment.

Robinson himself believed, for once, that his mission, successful until now, was to end here in failure, and that his own death-hour had struck.
The redoubtable chief stood in menacing attitude, with his eighteen-foot spear poised; his warriors stood massed at his back, armed for battle, their faces eloquent with their long-cherished loathing for white men.
"They rattled their spears and shouted their war-cry." Their women were back of them, laden with supplies of weapons, and keeping their 150 eager dogs quiet until the chief should give the signal to fall on.
"I think we shall soon be in the resurrection," whispered a member of Robinson's little party.
"I think we shall," answered Robinson; then plucked up heart and began his persuasions--in the tribe's own dialect, which surprised and pleased the chief.

Presently there was an interruption by the chief: "Who are you ?" "We are gentlemen." "Where are your guns ?" "We have none." The warrior was astonished.
"Where your little guns ?" (pistols).
"We have none." A few minutes passed--in by-play--suspense--discussion among the tribesmen--Robinson's tamed squaws ventured to cross the line and begin persuasions upon the wild squaws.

Then the chief stepped back "to confer with the old women--the real arbiters of savage war." Mr.Bonwick continues: "As the fallen gladiator in the arena looks for the signal of life or death from the president of the amphitheatre, so waited our friends in anxious suspense while the conference continued.

In a few minutes, before a word was uttered, the women of the tribe threw up their arms three times.