Fully two hours had passed before we observed Chaka’s naked body come bounding through the clearing without any attempt at concealment. Evidently he was in a state of great excitement. Skirting the edge of the pool he came directly toward us, disregarding the arrows and darts that rained upon him from the nearest edge of the forest. Then, with a final bound he fell flat at our feet, sobbing in a very ecstasy of grief and despair.
We looked at one another wonderingly as Allerton knelt down, took his friend’s head in his lap and stroked the dark hair as tenderly as a woman might have done. He asked no questions until Chaka’s passionate sobbing was gradually subdued.
“My poor brother!” he said in the Itzaex dialect.
Chaka seized his hands and pressed them.
“It is my father, dear Paul!” he said, miserably. “They have killed the atkayma—they have murdered him!”
“Who has done this, my brother?” inquired Allerton.
“The Mopanes.”
We others looked upon the scene silently, forbearing comment. I realized, for my part, that the old atkayma’s death might seriously affect the success of our enterprise; but I had not suspected Chaka was so fond of his royal father, having left him to his own devices for so many years.
As for that, however, I had not reckoned on the horror of the thing, although I might have appreciated better Chaka’s sensitive nature, so astonishing in one born to a savage life.
Before long the youth was able to tell his story, and he told it none too soon, either.