Connart was in the house, going over some accounts, when his wife ran in to him.
“George, come at once,” cried she; “such a dreadful thing—they’ve risen against Seedbaum and they are killing him somewhere in the woods, and they want us to go and see!”
“Good Lord!” cried he, “killing him! Want us to go and see! Are they mad?”
He picked up his hat and came out on the verandah, where the pretty little native girl was waiting, a flower of the scarlet hibiscus in her hair and calm contentment in her eyes.
“I can’t quite make out all she says,” said Mrs. Connart; “but I can make out her meaning.”
“You’d better stay here,” said he, “whilst I go; there may be trouble.”
“I am not afraid,” she replied. “Come on, we may be too late.”
They followed the child.
“Tell her to hurry,” said Connart.
“She says we need not hurry,” replied she; “as far as I can make out they are only going to kill him—I expect they have him a prisoner somewhere; well, much as I hate him, I am glad we will be able to save him.”