Then, before he could rise to his feet, he grasped his ankles, one with either hand, and swung him round his head, as a child whirls a sling, before throwing the stone.
To the awed spectators he seemed a black ring of fire, so dizzyingly swift were the gyrations, from the midst of which came a buzzing moan of terror.
Only for a second or two was he subjected to this torture.

Suddenly Ziffak ran toward the Xingu and then let go of the ankles.

The black, limp object went spinning far out in the air, as if driven from some enormous catapult.
Across the remaining space he went, falling several feet from shore and disappearing beneath the surface.

But such fellows are extinguished with difficulty, and the cold water quickly revived him.
By and by he came up, blew the moisture from his mouth, swam to shore, climbed timidly out, and, sneaking up the bank again, humbly took his place at the rear of the procession.
But Ziffak, having disposed of the joker, paid no further attention to him, caring naught whether he swam or was drowned.

The lesson was one that he would not forget, and produced a salutary effect upon the rest of the multitude.