On arriving before the two chiefs, he was for some moments unable to speak.
Words rose to his tongue, but they found no articulate utterance. His lips seemed glued together. Drops of sweat glistened upon his brow.
The father, with a dreadful prescience of new sorrows, trembled at the sight of his son.
“Nelatu,” he said, “what anguish awaits me? Of what fresh disaster do you bring the tidings? Speak! speak!”
The young Indian again essayed, but only succeeded in muttering “Sansuta!”
“Sansuta! What of her? Is she dead? Answer me!”
“No; she is not dead. Oh! father be calm—have courage—she is—”
“Speak, boy, or I shall go mad! What of her?”
“She is gone!”
“Gone! Whither?”