“No, no,” she replied, “I have not an instant to spare, I must get to my father as quickly as I possibly can,” and again she sped on her way.
“Come here, I say,” cried Singomengolo, “I have something to tell you about your father!”
“Oh, yes, I know,” rejoined the young girl, “they told me father is very ill—that is why I am in such a hurry.”
“You are wrong,” cried Singo, “your father is not ill—it is something much worse than that.”
The girl stopped at once: “Worse than that?” she asked, “tell me, is he dead?”
“No—much worse!”
“By Allah—what is it?”
“Come here,” said Singo, “and I will tell you. There are things, you know, that one cannot shout out by the wayside.”
This brought Dalima to his side. As she walked up to him, she had to pass the bushes behind which Mokesuep was lying concealed—in fact, in passing she brushed by them. As usual Dalima was very neatly dressed. Round her waist she wore a gaily coloured sarong, her bodice was of pink cotton, and over her shoulders was folded a red kerchief, from one of the points of which dangled a bunch of keys.
She had a double melattie flower in her thick heavy tresses, which, in the midst of that ebon-black mass of hair, looked like a pretty white rose. Just then her face was covered with a rich flush caused partly by the exertion of her long walk, partly by the pleasant coolness of the morning air; but this rich colour added animation to her pretty features, and blended most harmoniously with the deep bronze of her complexion.