I was delighted to hear my own voice after more than three weeks’ silence, though the words came indistinctly and painfully.
“Speak slowly or by signs,” said the young girl. “Nscho-Tschi sees that speech is painful to you.”
“Is Nscho-Tschi your name?”
“Yes.”
“It is fitting; you are like a lovely spring day when the first, sweetest flowers of the year are blooming.”
Nscho-Tschi means “Fair Day,” and she blushed a little at my compliment.
“Tell me what you desire,” she said.
“Tell me first why you are here.”
“My brother Winnetou commanded me to nurse you.”
“You are very like that brave young warrior.”