This last phrase was spoken with an earnest emphasis, and in a tone that shewed a strong feeling of resentment against some one unknown. I could not comprehend the nature of the expected vengeance.
“His son—yes,” continued the maniac, now in soliloquy, “it must be—it must: his eyes, his hair, his form, his gait, his name; his son and hers. Oh, Haj-Ewa will have revenge.”
Was I myself the object of this menace? Such a thought entered my mind.
“Good Ewa! of whom are you speaking?”
Roused by my voice, she looked upon me with a bewildered stare, and then broke out into her habitual chant:
“Why did I trust to a pale-faced lover?
Ho, ho, ho!” etc.
Suddenly stopping, she seemed once more to remember herself, and essayed a reply to my question.
“Whom, young mico? Of him the fair one—the wicked one—the Wykomé hulwa (the spirit of evil). See! he comes, he comes! Behold him in the water. Ho, ho! it is he. Up, young mico! up into thy leafy bower; stay till Ewa comes! Hear what you may hear—see what you may see; but, for your life, stir not till I give you the signal. Up, up, up!”
Just as on the preceding night, half lifting me into the live-oak, the maniac glided away amidst the shadows.
I lost no time in getting into my former position, where I sat silent and expecting.