"Try and think. Has she no other name?"
She shook her head. He gave up that trail as lost, and moved the grass-blade to another part of the drawing on the slate.
"Tell me what this is?"
"It is the Little Kopje. The English traveller made it when he put the dead woman in the ground."
His heart beat heavily, and the hand that pointed with the grass-blade shook a little.
"Where is the man who buried the dead woman and built the Little Kopje?"
She pointed to the rude oblong that was meant for a grave.
"There." The slender finger climbed the heap of boulders. "And there is where the Kid sits when she is a bad girl and runs away." She peeped up in his face almost slyly. "Then they call her: 'You Kid, come here! Dirty little slut, take the broom and sweep out the bar! Idle little devil, fetch water for the kitchen!'" Her smile was peaked and elfish. She laid a cunning finger beside her pursed-up lips. "But though they scold and call bad names, they never come and fetch her down off the Little Kopje. Beat her when she comes in, and serve her right, the impudent little scum! But never come near the Little Kopje, because of the spook the Barala boy saw there one night when the moon was big and shining."
He said, with infinite pity in his tone, and a compassionate mist rising in those keen bright eyes of his: