Her one thought was to find some one who could help her--some
woman who had had children of her own--and with the thought came
recollection of the friendly village of which Anderssen had spoken.
If she could but reach it--in time!
There was no time to be lost. Like a startled antelope she turned
and fled up the trail in the direction Anderssen had indicated.
From far behind came the sudden shouting of men, the sound of shots,
and then silence. She knew that Anderssen had met the Russian.
A half-hour later she stumbled, exhausted, into a little thatched
village. Instantly she was surrounded by men, women, and children.
Eager, curious, excited natives plied her with a hundred questions,
no one of which she could understand or answer.
All that she could do was to point tearfully at the baby, now wailing
piteously in her arms, and repeat over and over, "Fever--fever--fever."
The blacks did not understand her words, but they saw the cause of
her trouble, and soon a young woman had pulled her into a hut and
with several others was doing her poor best to quiet the child and
allay its agony.
The witch doctor came and built a little fire before the infant,
upon which he boiled some strange concoction in a small earthen
pot, making weird passes above it and mumbling strange, monotonous
chants.
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