But it is chiefly about Joshua's mother that she speaks, and wishes that her mother had lived. In the midst of the conversation she falls into a light slumber, and opening her eyes half an hour afterwards, resumes from the point where they had left off, as if there had been no interval of silence.
On another occasion they are together on the same spot, and Joshua is telling her of a beautiful part of the river's bank which she had not seen. "The river is narrow there, and even more peaceful than this," he says. "The trees on both sides bend over the water until the topmost branches almost touch, so that the river is in shade. The sun was peeping through the arch of branches, lighting up the water here and there, and the golden light streaked the white leaves of the lilies, over which the pretty lotus-bird was running with so light a step as not to stir the flowers."
"How beautiful!" she says softly. "At night, when the moon is shining on the water and the lily-leaves through the arch of branches, how grand and peaceful it must be! Joshua, bend your head, my dear. When I am gone, let me be buried there. Nay, don't cry; but promise."
In a broken voice he promises her, and she is content. Then she bids him bring Opara to her; and the aged chief comes and sits by her side.
"Opara," she says, taking Joshua's hand and kissing it, "this my brother and I are one. You understand?"
"I understand," he answers; and Joshua wonders what it is she is about to say.
"You see how weak I have grown, Opara. Look at my hand; you can see the light through it."
"Say, my daughter," asks Opara: "you who know the language of birds and flowers,--you who know the mysteries of the Grand Vault,--can you not make yourself strong?"
"No, Opara; I am wanted."
"Cannot our mintapas make you strong?"