“In de woods, where hims was trow’d to die; so de scout take him up and bring him to here.”
“Ah, poor child!” said I; “no doubt it must have been sick, and being a burden, has been left behind. But stay. How could that be possible if it was found between the camp and this village?”
On further inquiry, we ascertained that the scout, after hearing what he thought enough of their arrangements, had travelled some distance beyond the encampment, in order to make sure that there were no other bands connected with the one he had left, and it was while thus engaged that he stumbled on the child, which seemed to be in a dying condition.
“Hims say, too,” continued Makarooroo, after interpreting the above information, “that there be one poor woman in awfable sorrow, screechin’ and hollerowin’ like one lion.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Peterkin. “Describe her to us.”
The scout did so as well as he could.
“As sure as we live,” cried Peterkin, “it is our friend Njamie, and the child must be her boy! Come, show us the little fellow.”
We all ran out and followed the scout to his hut, where we found his wives—for he had three of them—nursing the child as tenderly as if it had been their own. It was very much wasted, evidently through want of food and over-fatigue; but we instantly recognised the once sturdy little son of Njamie in the faded little being before us. He, too, recognised us, for his bright spectral eyes opened wide when he saw us.
“I knew it,” said I.
“I told you so,” cried Peterkin.—“Now, Mak, pump him, and let’s hear what he knows.”