As Wacora looked in the direction indicated, he perceived his two cousins approaching.
The beautiful maiden, now wan and sad, seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some wild flowers which she held in her hand. There were others wreathed in her hair.
In this manner had she been conducted to the camp.
Nelatu turned to his sister, put his arm in hers, and was about to lead her off, when a man rushed into the presence of the chief, crying out as he approached—
“Good news! The body of the white chief, Rody, has been found, and—”
The warning gesture had been lost upon the impatient speaker.
It was too late now, Sansuta had heard the fated name.
Casting from her the flowers she had been trifling with, she uttered shriek upon shriek, running wildly and beseechingly, backwards and forwards, from her brother to her cousin, who both stood spell-bound with surprise and grief.
“Where have you hid him? Give him to me. You shall not kill him; no—no—no! I say you shall not hurt him! Warren! Warren! ’tis Sansuta calls. Murderers! He never injured you. Take nay life—not his! Warren! Warren! Oh, do not keep him from me. See, that is his blood upon your hands—his eyes are closed in death! It is you, wretches, that have murdered him. No, no—stand back—I would not have you touch me whilst your hands are red with his blood. Back! back! I will find him!—No, you shall kill me first!—I will find Warren Rody! Help, help! save me from his murderers!”
With renewed screams of agony that struck horror into the listeners’ hearts, the girl, eluding their grasp, darted away into the forest.