By the evening there were not less than a hundred and fifty savages collected together. Although the weather was warm, they were lying down before their campfires, with the exception of one group of about twenty old men and doctors of the principal tribes, who were earnestly engaged in discussing matters relating to the white people. An old chief of the tribe who had first discovered the castaways was on his feet, declaiming violently, with extravagant action, in which, nevertheless, there was much dignity. Opara was his name. His hair and beard were white, and his face and body were scored with ugly seams gained in battle, or in the exercise of the strange rites and ceremonies of his tribe. On his neck and breast, and from his shoulders to his hips, were still to be seen, old as he was, the gashes made in his youth to entitle him to the dignity of manhood. A great chief was Opara--wise in council, fearless in battle and had been the most skilful of all his tribe with boomerang and spear, and middla, and in throwing the wirra. "The strangers are ours," he said; "the sacred crow, Karakorok, witnesseth that they are ours by right. The heavens were filled with light, and great voices thundered. We listened in awe. Fire rent the mountains, and made new caverns sacred. Light dived into raging waterfalls, cutting the earth. We waited full a moon. The storm ceased; the spirits spoke no more. We waited another moon. The stars fell near the sea--into it. We went there, wanting to know. We brought the strangers back. They are ours." Up rose Wealberrin, chief of the other tribe. No less famous he than Opara. White-bearded, too, and tattooed from top to toe, and no less cunning with war and hunting weapons. Around his waist was a belt made of the hair of the enemies he had slain in battle. "Not so," he said. "The _land_ is ours. There, in Pandarri Kurto (heaven's cavern), lie our mintapas--our doctors. There are our hunting-grounds--our fishing-lands. There we make men of our sons. Shall I take Opara's food, and call it mine by right? He would reply as becomes a warrior. If I ask, he would give. But I ask not now. The land is ours. What is found on the land is ours." "Once lived Mirgabeen," said Opara. "Bright-eyed, fleet-footed, hollow-backed. Her tongue spoke the music of the birds. Her dark hair hung down to her arched feet. She could shroud her glory in it--as night the day. She was beloved by all. Too bright for earth, she lives in the heavens now, a star. She looks down on me. She hears me speak. So dwelt with us a maid, whose supple limbs cleaved the water, who sang the music of the woods. The trees bent to her as she walked. The branches bowed before her, and whispered to her, and she replied. She left us for the grand vault where moons are made. What was ours is ours. She has come back to us. She is ours." "So be it," said Wealberrin. "The others then are ours. Opara has spoken."