"They have heard of the killing of Him Who Speaks for Luata,"

whispered the girl. "Soon they will spread in all directions

searching for us."

"And will they find us?"

"As surely as Lua gives light by day," she replied; "and when

they find us, they will tear us to pieces, for only the Wieroos

may murder--only they may practice tas-ad."

"But they will not kill you," said Bradley. "You did not slay him."

"It will make no difference," she insisted. "If they find us

together they will slay us both."

"Then they won't find us together," announced Bradley decisively.

"You stay right here--you won't be any worse off than before I

came--and I'll get as far as I can and account for as many of the

beggars as possible before they get me. Good-bye! You're a mighty

decent little girl. I wish that I might have helped you."

"No," she cried. "Do not leave me. I would rather die. I had

hoped and hoped to find some way to return to my own country.

I wanted to go back to An-Tak, who must be very lonely without me;

but I know that it can never be. It is difficult to kill hope,

though mine is nearly dead. Do not leave me."

"An-Tak!" Bradley repeated. "You loved a man called An-Tak?"

"Yes," replied the girl. "An-Tak was away, hunting, when the

Wieroo caught me. How he must have grieved for me! He also was

cos-ata-lu, twelve moons older than I, and all our lives we

have been together."

Bradley remained silent. So she loved An-Tak. He hadn't the

heart to tell her that An-Tak had died, or how.

At the door of Fosh-bal-soj's storeroom they halted to listen.

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