Peter touched her shoulder, then turned quickly round to me.
“She does not need our consolation, Jack,” he said, solemnly.
“What,” I cried, “is Nadi dead?”
“Nadi is dead!”
If I have any consolation at all in looking back to the events of that morning, it is to think that Jill and I had told to these poor heathens the sad, sweet story of this world.
Jeeka and his wife are buried side by side on the banks of the river that rolls through the forest, close to the spot where our old log-house stood.
“Amidst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream they’re laid;
The Indian knows their place of rest
Far in the cedar shade.”