'Not at once. I will give you a room. You must rest some days.'

' No, I cat, then I go. Back to my own people. I like it not here.'

Theo could do nothing with him, except order the mutinous servants to provide him with food. They sidled past him warily. Cato flung the dishes of rice and roast meat at him, as though he were tending a crouching panther. They had worked up a pleasurable fear of being tomahawked, and they resented the dark-skinned visitor's acceptance at the buckra dining-table.

A faint amusement flickered in Wabasha's face, but he said nothing at all. Theo sat down beside him and tried to draw him out. Gampy, more than ever fascinated with this interesting break in his monotonous life on the Waccamaw, hovered beside her.

'Governor Lewis is on his way East,' said Theodosia. 'By what route is he coming?'

'Boat down Great River to Chickasaw. Then trail.'

'You mean he will follow the Natchez Trace?'

Wabasha grunted.

' Do you think he has reached the Alleghenies yet?'

The Indian did not answer. He speared himself half a wild duck, picked the bleeding flesh neatly off with his fingers. The rice, which he had never seen before, he did not touch.

' Has the Governor been ill—sick?' she asked, trying again.

For a moment she thought there would be no answer to this either. Wabasha consumed his duck in silence. She sighed, when suddenly he raised his head and looked at her.

'Sick in body—no. His spirit is sick. The Bird of Death has touched him.'

' The Bird of Death?' she repeated blankly. 'What do you mean by that?'

Wabasha shrugged. 'Great white bird from the North. When it touches with its wings, we die. My people know. Governor know too.'

Can it be that Merne has really let himself become infected with this heathen folly? she thought, dismayed. It is as bad as the negroes'.

'How can this be if he is not sick?' She spoke with matter-of-fact briskness, suddenly conscious of Gampy's sharpened interest.

'All trails lead to death,' said Wabasha. 'It matters not which one he travels. White bird comes for all. For him it will be soon.'

Theo rose abruptly, with a gesture of impatience, but Gampy, his small serious face pillowed on his hands, stared at the Indian across the table. 'Is it ugly—the bird?' he asked. 'Does it scare you?'

Wabasha pushed back his plate and wiped his mouth. 'Not ugly, little one. His feathers are deep—soft.'

Gampy considered this, and nodded. 'Where does he fly to?' What morbid tarradiddles arc these? thought Theo. I must stop it. Gampy should not think of such things. And yet she waited for the Indian's answer.

'He flics to the land beyond the cold. A good place.'