There was unutterable grief in Keeko's attitude. At her feet lay the low, long mound which marked her mother's grave. Beyond, at the head of it, was a rough wooden cross, hewn from stout logs of spruce. And deeply cut on the cross-bar was her mother's name prefixed by words of endearment. Just behind the girl stood the heavily blanketed figure of Lu-cana, whose eyes were shadowed by a grief which her lips lacked the power to express.
All about them reigned the living silence of the forest with its threat of hidden dangers. It was a silence where the breaking of a twig, the rustle of the soft, rotting vegetation, inches deep upon the ground, might indicate the prowling approach of famished wolf or scavenging coyote, the stealing of wildcat or even of the deadly puma.
The minutes passed as the two women stood voicelessly at the grave side. That which was passing in their minds was their own. Both, in their different fashions, had loved the woman laid so deep in the ground at their feet. And both knew, and perfectly understood, the life she had endured at the hands of the man who had set up the monument to her memory.
After a long time Keeko stirred. She drew a deep breath. It was the sign of passing from thought to activity. She turned to the woman behind her.
"How did she die, Lu-cana?" she asked, in a low voice.
Lu-cana drew near. She spoke in a tone as if in fear of being overheard. And as she spoke she looked this way and that.
"She weep—weep all time when you go," she said brokenly. "She big with much fear. Oh, yes. She scare all to death. So. Days come—she live. She not eat. Oh, no. Days come many. An' all time she weep inside. She not speak. No. Her eye—it all time look around. Oh, much fear. Then one day she not wake. She die all up."
"And he?"
"Oh, him come all time. Him sit and mak' talk to her. I not know. Only him talk. Him go—she weep. Him go—she watch all scare. So it come she die all up."