"This is Ohto," he said. "I will interpret for you if he does not understand your dialect." The Major faced the fine, austere old patriarch. The brown face had been wrinkled bewilderingly by the heavy-handed years, but his eyes still glowed with something of the pride and spirit of his youth. Wrapped in a thick blanket of hand woven _kapok_, he confronted them with that air of dignity and distinction common to those who from early life have dominated the councils of a community. The Major silently tendered his gifts. Ohto motioned to one of his retainers and in a few monosyllables ordered their distribution among the people, the red cloth to the women, the beads to the children and the matches to be divided among the young men. As he retained nothing for himself the Major produced a new pocket knife he carried, and bade Terry make Ohto understand that it was for himself. The savage bent his hoary locks over the treasure, examining the mysterious blades that opened and closed at his will, and accepted it as his own. The Major attempted to address the chief in his scanty Bogobo, stumbled, and turned to Terry beseechingly. "You tell him, Terry. You know what we've got to say better than I do!" So Terry spoke, and though the Major did not know it, he continually referred to him as his chief, put all of the fine phrases in his name. The warriors along the wall weighed every word. Terry told Ohto of their great pleasure in having entered the Hills, and of their appreciation of their reception. He extended the greetings of the White Chief across the waters at Zamboanga, tried to impress him with the interest the White Chief took in the Hill People and of his good will toward them: told of the advantages that would follow intercourse with the lowlands, of the good that would come to his people from contact with others. Finally he dwelt upon the folly of isolation, of the benefits of commerce and schools and other elements of civilization. The flare of the pitch torches brought out the sincerity of his face. The old chief listened, inscrutably, his unwavering gaze fixed upon the earnest speaker. Before the aged infirmity of Ohto Terry stood in apt symbol of lithe youth. It was apparent that Ohto did not grasp much of what Terry strove to impart, for the primitive imagination was powerless to understand institutions he could not conceive. He listened gravely but gave no inkling of what went on behind the mask of his wise old eyes. Terry finished, awaited expression of his decision. For a long time the patriarch remained silent, idly opening and closing the blades of his knife. The Hillmen ranged along the wall, who had listened attentively to Terry's arguments for opening up their country to the outlanders, waited their chief's pronouncement with set faces and gleaming eyes, their brown bodies still as bronze figures.