Part 49 (1/2)

It was a sad scene. The tents torn and flapping in the morning breeze, some of them down; broken spears and guns and daggers lying here and there; dead and dying horses; dead and dying men, the anguish of the women, the wailing of the children.

I took all this in at a glance. Then my eyes were riveted on a group at some little distance, and I hastened thither, to find Castizo kneeling beside the tall n.o.ble form of the prostrate Prince Jeeka.

He holds out his right hand as I approach; Castizo gives place to me, and I kneel where he had knelt. At his other side crouches Nadi. She is bewildered and silent, grief and anguish depicted in every line of her poor drawn, pinched face.

”Jeeka, Jeeka, are you much hurt? Who has done this?”

”Hurt? Yes. Ya shank, ya shank.” (I am tired and sleepy). ”So, so.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. I thought he was gone, but he slowly opened them again, and looked at me.

”Poor Nadi!” he said. ”It--was--her brother. So, so.”

This, then, was the key to the awful night's work. Revenge. Verily these Patagonian Indians are men of like pa.s.sions with ourselves.

”The Great Good Spirit is come. Jeeka goes--home. Tell me--the story of the--world. So, so.”

These were the last words poor Prince Jeeka ever spoke on earth. He had gone to learn the story of the world, in a better world than ours.

We all came away and left Nadi with her dear husband. Her face had fallen forward on his big broad chest, and she appeared convulsed with grief.

”Leave her a little,” Castizo said. ”It is ever better thus.”

In about half an hour, or it might have been less, Peter and I returned.

Nadi had never moved from her position.

”Nadi, my poor woman,” said Peter. ”Nadi, Nadi.”

She was still.

Peter touched her shoulder, then turned quickly round to me.

”She does not need our consolation, Jack,” he said, solemnly.

”What,” I cried, ”is Nadi dead?”

”Nadi is dead!”

If I have any consolation at all in looking back to the events of that morning, it is to think that Jill and I had told to these poor heathens the sad, sweet story of this world.

Jeeka and his wife are buried side by side on the banks of the river that rolls through the forest, close to the spot where our old log-house stood.

”Amidst the forests of the West, By a dark stream they're laid; The Indian knows their place of rest Far in the cedar shade.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

ON THE GOOD YACHT ”MAGDALENA”--”THE VERY SEAS USED TO SING TO US”--THE HOME-COMING--THE END.

At sea once more.