A soft flush came into Nidia’s face, accompanied by a pleased smile.
“And you knew me from that?” she said. Then all her anxiety coming back upon her—for she had momentarily lost sight of it in the feeling of safety engendered by this man’s appearance and identity—she exclaimed—
“But where is Jonémi? He went out yesterday—not much after midday—and should have been back by sundown. You must find him, Pukele.”
The man uttered some words to himself in his own tongue, which from the tone were expressive of like anxiety. Then, to her—
“Which way he go?”
She pointed out, as best she could, the way John Ames had proposed to take. Pukele shook his head.
“No good dat way. Much Matabele dere. ’Spose he fire gun, den Matabele hear him for sure.”
Nidia’s face blanched, and she clasped her hands together wildly.
“You don’t think they have—killed him?” she said slowly.
In his heart of hearts Pukele thought that nothing was more likely; but he was not going to say so.