A Silent Declaration.
“Now for the love, the sweet young love,
Under the tala tree,” etc.
It was the voice of Haj-Ewa, chanting one of her favourite melodies. Far sweeter the tones of another voice pronouncing my own name:
“George Randolph!”
“Maümee!”
“Ho, ho! you both remember?—still remember? Hinklas! The island—that fair island—fair to you, but dark in the memory of Haj-Ewa. Hulwak! I’ll think of’t no more—no, no, no!
“Now for the love, the sweet young love,
Under—
“It was once mine—it is now yours, mico! yours, haintclitz! Pretty creatures! enjoy it alone; you wish not the mad queen for a companion? Ha, ha! Cooree, cooree! I go; fear not the rustling wind, fear not the whispering trees; none can approach while Haj-Ewa watches. She will be your guardian. Chitta mico, too. Ho, chitta mico!
“Now for the love, the sweet young love.”
And again renewing her chant, the strange woman glided from the spot, leaving me alone with Maümee.