All her former violence had disappeared, and a change had also made itself manifest in her mental condition.
Now and then she had lucid moments of thought, during which she would shed torrents of tears on Alice’s shoulder, only with the return of her malady would she appear happy and at peace.
Towards sunset of a lovely day the two girls sat together at the door of Sansuta’s dwelling.
“See!” said the Indian girl, “the flowers are closing, the birds have gone into the deep forest. I have been expecting some one, but he has not come yet. Do you know who it is?”
“No, I do not.”
“’Tis Warren. Why do you start and tremble? He will not hurt you. Who was it you thought I meant?”
“I cannot tell, dear Sansuta.”
“No one but him—I think of him always, although,” she added lowering her voice to a whisper, “I dare not call his name. I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid of my brother Nelatu and my cousin Wacora. Why does the sun look so fiery? It is the colour of blood—blood—blood! That red colour, is it on your hands, too? Ah, no! You are no murderer!”
“Hush, Sansuta! you are excited.”
“Ah, yonder sun! Do you know that I feel as if it were the last time I should ever see it set. See, there are dark lines across the sky—ribbed with bands of black clouds. It is the last day—the last day—”