In a moment the old man entered. He was mumbling. He was saying, in that
jumble of sound which it was difficult for even Alan to understand--and
which Sokwenna had never given up for the missionaries' teachings--that
he could hear feet and smell blood; and that the feet were many, and the
blood was near, and that both smell and footfall were coming from the
old kloof where yellow skulls still lay, dripping with the water that
had once run red. Alan was one of the few who, by reason of much effort,
had learned the story of the kloof from old Sokwenna; how, so long ago
that Sokwenna was a young man, a hostile tribe had descended upon his
people, killing the men and stealing the women; and how at last Sokwenna
and a handful of his tribesmen fled south with what women were left and
made a final stand in the kloof, and there, on a day that was golden and
filled with the beauty of bird-song and flowers, had ambushed their
enemies and killed them to a man. All were dead now, all but Sokwenna.
For a space Alan was sorry he had called Sokwenna to his cabin. He was
no longer the cheerful and gentle "old man" of his people; the old man
who chortled with joy at the prettiness and play of Keok and Nawadlook,
who loved birds and flowers and little children, and who had retained an
impish boyhood along with his great age.
Pages:
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274