No time now. Have to do it the old way.
The entire procession halted, and as the drumbeats rose in tempo to a
heightened furor, shaking the very bones of all present as by the
impending battle sounds of the hooves of war horses, Master Rababull
stepped momentously around to the fore, facing them all front and
center in a grand entrance.
At the raising of both of Master Rababull's arms, the drums increased
in a furious tempo, and when the arms dropped the sound of the drums
abruptly ceased, although one witless soul kept beating a fraction of a
second too long before realizing that he had overlooked the cut-off
signal.
Master Rababull made the slightest turn of his head to see who it was,
and marked the terrified fool for a thorough whipping later.
In the sudden silence, the terrified slave-woman could be heard weeping
and begging desperately for the life of her daughter, as Master
Rababull stood with his arms raised again like an eagle before the
general assemblage.
Before him were all available members of the House of Rababull, men to
the fore, women to the rear, children hindmost, and freeborn family
members to the right.
The first row, signifying the first-line defense arm, was comprised of
his many sons. It would be Master Rababull's long-awaited opportunity
to have a few of the more ambitious of his offspring lead the battle
charge and see them finished off before they could come home to glory
and threaten his personal authority over all his holdings.
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