She was very young, soft and round of outline, with hair straighter and more glossy than is usual among her kind, and large black eyes now raining tears.

She wiped them away with a sooty hand, pink in the palm.

Her left arm hung limp by her side.
Lady Bridget jumped to her feet, all concern.
'Oh, you poor thing! You poor, poor thing,' she cried.

For Wombo, tweaking aside the concealing blanket, showed the smooth shaft of a spear transfixed in the quivering flesh of Oola's arm, above the elbow.
He had broken off the long end of the spear to expedite their flight--so he explained in his queer lingo--but Oola had cried so much that he had not been able to draw out the rest of the shaft.
'BUJERI* YOU, white Mary!' pleaded Oola in the native formula.

'You gib it medsin....