The bottle was produced, but neither Ibrahim nor Max had any chance of opening it, for the hostile chief took the bottle from them, broke off the neck, and drank the contents as easily as he could have swallowed water. “Good, good! more!” he exclaimed; but at that moment a violent storm of thunder and rain burst upon them with terrific fury. The rain fell like a veritable cloudburst, and the natives, remembering what Ibrahim had said, ascribed the storm to Max, and fled as though ten thousand soldiers were pursuing them. The American’s reputation was now well assured, and the musicians beat the cymbals louder than ever, while the men shouted themselves hoarse. Max was getting tired of the assumed position, but he saw no way out of it. One thing troubled both explorers--they were either going in the wrong direction, or the distance was greater than they had imagined. They, however, had to submit. They were treated as superior mortals, and oftentimes were in dilemmas from which it was difficult to extricate themselves. One morning the deputy chief who was in command of the Gondos threw himself on his stomach in front of Max and wriggled like a snake to attract attention. “What is it, M’Kamba?” asked Ibrahim. “The great chief hath said it,” answered the native. “What hath he said?” “That the wonderful medicine man whose life could not be destroyed”--meaning Max--“must take all the cymbal girls as his wives, and his great friend, whose tongue speaketh wonders, shall take all the drummer girls as his wives.” “Allah forbid!” ejaculated Ibrahim, under his breath. Making an excuse that he must consult with Max, he got rid of the Gondo. “Here is a fix we’ve got into,” said Ibrahim, when alone with his friend. “What is it?” “Do you know how many cymbal players we have?” “About thirty.” “Yes, I suppose so. Well, they are all yours.” “Mine?” “You have to marry them.” “The----” Max stopped. His thoughts evidently formed the name by which the prince of the power of the air is familiarly known, but he bit his lips and did not utter his thoughts. “Yes; and I am to marry all the drummers.” “What a lark!” “Eh?” “I said it would be fun,” answered Max. “Do you think so?” “Fancy, if you offended your wives, or if you wished to give them a lecture, they would seize their drums and beat such a tattoo that you would acknowledge yourself vanquished.” Max laughed so heartily at the idea that Ibrahim almost feared for his reason. Taking up the challenge, however, he retaliated. “And wouldn’t your ears be split with the chorus of tinkling cymbals?” “It is horrible. Of course you refused the honor.” “I did not.” “Wha-at?” “I did not, because I dare not.” “Why?” “Have you never heard of the custom of the Gondos?” “No.” “It is this: The chief calls a favorite to him and desires to honor him. He does so by giving him one or more wives--the more wives the greater honor.” “Indeed!”