“Is it bad news, Nadjii?” asked Loïs.
She nodded. Loïs sighed.
“Come this way,” she said; and skirting round the house, they came to a sort of shed, used for putting away garden tools and general rubbish.
“We shall be quiet here for a time,” said Loïs; “but it is getting late; you must be quick, Nadjii. Charles is surely not ill?”
The Indian shook her head.
“No, you ill,” she said softly, in broken English; and then she continued, speaking rapidly, “They will come; they will kill and burn. Run, run far away.”
Every particle of colour left Loïs’ face. “Do you mean your people are coming down to murder us? Where is Charles?” she said.
“Away with the white man on the great sea. Nadjii follow her own people, to watch for you; he say ‘Go,’ and Nadjii went. My people angry because your white brother kill them, and the great Onontio angry. He escape always, over mountains, rivers; no Indian catch him.”
“Are you speaking of Roger?” said Loïs.
“Yes,” answered the Indian. “Just kill Indians in wood; Onontio angry, revenge.”