All laughed as they heard his solemn words.

The ridicule incensed him.
"You one conjurer," he said, "he conjure melons.

One moon, two moons, he shall die." The laborers laughed again.
"Half moon, more moons, he shall suffer--half moon, more moons," that is, sooner or later.
The missionary's face grew serious.

The tall Indian saw the change of expression.
"Braves sick." He spread out his blanket and folded it again like wings.
"Braves double up _so_"-- he bent over, opening and folding his blanket.
"Braves conjured; melon conjured--white man conjure.

Indian kill him." There was a puzzled look on all faces.
"Braves get well again," said the missionary, incautiously.
"Then you _know_," said the Indian.