The last word he said in a soft, liquid tone, far different from his usual rather harsh mode of speech; and he lingered over the name with evident fondness.
Edgar became interested, and the spirit of adventure began to stir within him.
‘Who is Enooma?’ he asked, endeavouring to speak the word as Yacka pronounced it.
‘The White Spirit of the Great Desert,’ said Yacka, in a solemn voice. ‘She rests in the cave in the land I came from. She is beautiful and white as clouds; and I am black as the thunder-makers—and her son.’
‘How can that be?’ asked Edgar. ‘Yacka must be mistaken; he cannot be the son of Enooma the White Spirit. How can I trust him if he deceives me?’
The black looked round, and, seeing no one about, said:
‘Yacka speaks true, else how would he know the cave where no white man has been?’
‘Suppose I promise to go with you to the cave,’ said Edgar, ‘how would it be possible for us to go alone?’
‘We have guns,’ said Yacka, relapsing into ordinary speech, ‘and there is much to shoot where I go. We follow tracks through big white man’s country, and cross rivers. I came from there, and can return. Yacka knows a track once he has followed it.’
‘Give me time to think it over,’ said Edgar. ‘I trust you, Yacka, but I have others to think about. I have a good sister, and a kind father, in far-away England, and there will be dangers to encounter on our journey.’