Then she threw back her head and laughed, a harsh, cackling laugh that caused Bomba to wince and shrink back as from the sharp thrust of a knife.
“Eh, Bartow, you would have a joke with Sobrinini, my fine one,” croaked the old crone, wagging her finger in Bomba’s face and leering at him in a way she meant to be facetious. “No, no, Bartow—or Bartow’s ghost—that was not your mother’s song, but the song of your wife——”
“My wife!” the words broke from Bomba impetuously. “What mean you, Sobrinini?”
“Ah, you would still have your joke with Sobrinini, eh?” The old woman leaned forward again and tapped him on the arm with her skinny finger. “But you cannot forget that song, Bartow, the song your wife sang after Bonny was born.”
But when Bomba would have questioned her further, she pushed him away from her and began to sing again.
“La la la! la la la!” she sang.
It was the gay and vibrant melody that poor Casson had tried to sing.
Bomba could do nothing but stand in bewildered silence and watch the old woman as she danced and sang, whirling about the poor stage with a nimbleness that was amazing in one of her age.
Confusedly, he tried to think of the things she had said to him, but beneath the wild spell of that performance he could reason nothing out, and could only stare dazedly at this wreck of what had once been a great genius.
What would happen to him, Bomba wondered, when the woman tired of dancing and perhaps found out that he was not Bartow or Bartow’s ghost as she thought him then, but only Bomba, a boy of the jungle.