“What has happened?” asked Timoa, anxiously.
While Nehow explained the nature of the cruel treatment he had just received, they ran together to the nearest water-course. It chanced to be pretty full at the time, heavy rain having fallen the day before.
“There; oh! ha–a! not so hard,” groaned the unfortunate man, as his friend laved the water on his lacerated back.
In a few minutes the salt was washed out of the wounds, and Nehow began to feel easier.
“Where is Menalee?” he asked, abruptly, as he sat down under the deep shadow of a banyan-tree.
“In his master’s hut, I suppose,” answered Timoa. “Go find him and Tetaheite; fetch them both here,” he said, with an expression of ferocity on his dark face.
Timoa looked at him with an intelligent grin.
“The white men must die,” he said.
“Yes,” Nehow replied, “the white men shall die.”
Timoa pointed to the lump which had been raised on his shin, grinned again, and turning quickly round, glided into the underwood like an evil spirit of the night.