"I'll repeat this one last time!
Put down your weapons, clasp your hands over your head, and squat!
If you don't comply, that's your fate!"
Sunday no longer looked directly at Werner, as if he were just a goat or an even more cowardly rabbit.
He turned his head, repeating it for the fourth time.
This time his voice was not as loud as the third repetition, but carried much more threat.
The crimson blade, the native with the back of his head blown open, the corpses of companions killed by throat-cutting, the mysterious 'divine punishment' claiming lives in unknown ways, all these factors combined, finally made the natives abandon their futile resistance.
A few of them lay on the ground, seemingly petrified, still facing the sand, like the rumored ostriches burying their heads in the sand, deceiving themselves.
The remaining conscious natives hurriedly followed Sunday's instructions, dropping their weapons, squatting down, displaying unprecedented obedience.
...
