Bomba waited till several days had elapsed and his aged charges had become rested and strengthened after their exhausting experiences before he broached the subject that was nearest his heart.
Then, one evening after supper, he turned to them as they were sitting dreamily in the large room of the little cabin.
“Casson!” he said. “Sobrinini! Look upon each other and tell me what you see.”
They started at his sharp command, and gazed bewilderedly at him, then at each other.
At first there was no recognition, but as they gazed fixedly a dawning wonderment came into their eyes.
Casson was the first to speak.
“Sobrinini!” he cried. “No, that is not Sobrinini. Sobrinini was beautiful. Sobrinini could sing. And yet—and yet——”
“Casson!” exclaimed Sobrinini in her turn. “It cannot be Casson. He was young and strong, and his hair was like that of the raven. But I am Sobrinini. I can sing. Listen!”
She sprang to her feet and sang in her cracked voice the song that Bomba had heard in the language he did not understand. As she sang, Casson began to beat his withered palms together in applause, and finally got to his feet and started to dance about the room.
It was weird and uncanny, and Bomba looked on, fascinated yet horrified, until the song ended, the dance stopped, and the aged participants sank trembling in their chairs.