“Amayeka,” said Gray, “what will you do when your tribe is roused? You cannot stay here. You must fly.”
“And leave you?” asked Amayeka, in a tone indescribably mournful.
“I love you, Amayeka; you must fly with me.”
“You love me, Martin, you love me!” repeated the Kafir girl, in distinct and sweetly-toned English, as if she had just acquired a knowledge of the value attached to the language, because her lover understood her at once; and then she went on in an innocent, childish way: “Ukutanda, diyatanda, diyatandiva, diyakutanda”—“To love, I love, I am loved, I will love;” and laughing gleefully at applying an old lesson to a purpose hitherto unthought of she forgot the war-cry—the red soldiers—she began to teach Gray the lesson, and when he had repeated it over and over again, to her infinite satisfaction, she tried to look into his countenance by the dusky light, and laughed softly.
“But, Amayeka,” said Gray again, “tell me, will you go with me from this wild tribe of yours?”
“Go!” said Amayeka, her low laugh turned into a sigh—“And whither? Leave the land, and my people to sit in the ashes! Cowards only fly from a burning kraal; the brave stand by to quench the flame, and help the ruined.”
“But the red soldiers are my countrymen,” said Gray; “you would not have me fight them!”
Amayeka tried to understand her lover’s notions of treachery; but the question resolved itself into these simple words—“Ah! you must not go; you belong to us now.”
The deserter groaned.
She took his hand, bent her head upon it, and kissed it with mute tenderness.