While they ate, Hondura questioned them further, while Pirah sat close to the jungle lad, every now and then reaching out a timid little hand to touch him.
“Where is the good white man, Casson?” asked Hondura.
Bomba shook his head sorrowfully.
“Casson has gone away,” he replied. “He has wandered into the jungle. The headhunters came last night and burned the cabin of Pipina. Bomba was not there. But when he came he found Pipina hiding. She did not know where Casson had gone.”
Fire flashed in Hondura’s eyes.
“May the curse of the gods rest on Nascanora,” he cried. “Bomba should have killed him the night he had him at his mercy.”
The reference was to a happening that had taken place near the Giant Cataract on a night that Bomba had met Nascanora in the midst of a perilous and horrifying scene. As the chief had blocked his path Bomba had sunk the iron hilt of his machete into Nascanora’s face, knocking him senseless. Hondura had urged then that Bomba slay Nascanora, but the boy had refused to kill an enemy who could not fight.
“The point of your knife should have bit into his heart,” went on Hondura. “Then he would have troubled you no more. Now he hates you more than before and has sworn to have vengeance. His nose is crushed, and the squaws laugh at him behind his back, though they do not dare to smile where he can see them. He would die happy if he could make Bomba die first.”
Bomba laughed.
“He has yet to catch Bomba,” he replied. “And if he does catch him, he may wish that he had rather laid his hand upon a cooanaradi. I do not fear Nascanora. But I fear for Casson.”