“Now come,” cried Mak, and as if he belonged to the little tribe, he led the way a little farther into the forest, followed slowly by some of the child-like men, to where it was evident they formed their sleeping camp and prepared their food.
Here nestling in a hole which was lined with the skins of two or three of the native bucks, Mak pointed out with his spear one of the dwarfs who was cowering shrinkingly down so that the young travellers could see little of him but his flashing eyes.
“Mark look,” said the black sharply, and taking hold of the little fellow by the wrist he gently drew him partly out of his skin bed, uttering a curious whimpering sound as if he were in pain.
“Don’t hurt him, Mak,” cried Dean.
“Look, Dean; see,” and he pointed to the little fellow’s arm and shoulder, and as Mark bent down, not understanding fully in the shadow what their guide meant, it suddenly dawned upon him that the poor little fellow, who was terribly emaciated, had evidently been mauled by some savage beast, his little wasted left arm and shoulder being in a terrible, almost loathsome, state.
“Look, Dean,” cried Mark, shrinking with disgust, which he overcame directly, and handing his rifle to his cousin he went down on one knee, with three or four of the little tribe looking on, wonderingly, but all with a grave, solemn seriousness of aspect, while Mark took out a handkerchief from his breast and spread it tenderly over the fearful festering wound.
“Isn’t it horrible!” he said, turning up his head to speak to his cousin, but encountering the bent over face of the illaka looking on approvingly.
“Good—boy,” he said solemnly. “Mark good.”
The last traces of the look of disgust passed from Mark’s face, and he laughed merrily at the black.
“I say, Dean, I have lost my handkerchief, but I have got a good character. But, poor little beggar, that will kill him. Still, I shouldn’t have liked to have missed seeing these people. Who would ever have thought there were any like them in the world!”