“Poor Nadi!” he said. “It—was—her brother. So, so.”
This, then, was the key to the awful night’s work. Revenge. Verily these Patagonian Indians are men of like passions with ourselves.
“The Great Good Spirit is come. Jeeka goes—home. Tell me—the story of the—world. So, so.”
These were the last words poor Prince Jeeka ever spoke on earth. He had gone to learn the story of the world, in a better world than ours.
We all came away and left Nadi with her dear husband. Her face had fallen forward on his big broad chest, and she appeared convulsed with grief.
“Leave her a little,” Castizo said. “It is ever better thus.”
In about half an hour, or it might have been less, Peter and I returned.
Nadi had never moved from her position.
“Nadi, my poor woman,” said Peter. “Nadi, Nadi.”
She was still.