“How so?” exclaimed Waroonga, “has any one been here before with the grand and sweet story of Jesus and His love.”
The reply of the savage chief was strangely anticipated and checked at that moment by a burst of childish voices singing one of the beautiful hymns with which the inhabitants of Ratinga had long been familiar. As the voices swelled in a chorus, which distance softened into fairy-like strains, the missionary and his companion sat entranced and bewildered, while the natives looked pleased, and appeared to enjoy their perplexity.
“Our little ones,” said Ongoloo, after a few minutes’ pause, “are amusing themselves with singing. They often do that.”
As he spoke the party were startled and surprised by the sudden appearance of Ebony, who quietly stalked into the circle and seated himself beside the missionary with the guilty yet defiant air of a man who knows that he has done wrong, but is resolved at all hazards to have his way. Considering the turn that affairs had taken, neither Orlando nor Waroonga were sorry to see him.
“This is a friend,” said the latter in explanation, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder. “But tell me, chief, we are impatient for to know, where learned you that song?”
“From one who is mad,” replied the chief still gazing earnestly at Orlando.
“Mad!” repeated the youth, starting up and trembling with excitement—“how know you that? Who—where is he? Ask him, Waroonga.”
The explanation that followed left no doubt on Orlando’s mind that his father was bereft of reason, and wandering in the neighbouring mountain.
If there had been any doubt, it would have been swept away by the chief, who quietly said, “the madman is your father!”
“How does he know that Waroonga?”