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might kill mother, so I must have time, I knew, to prepare her. With the help of some other women I carried Lusanne to the side of the camp and with our hands we dug her grave—just a shallow hole in the sand. I made a little cross from bits of wood we found after a long search, and laid it in her hands.

When morning came mother had gathered her strength, with a tremendous effort, and was able to stand and walk. Some strong young women, offered to help carry her, even all day if necessary, if she could not walk. Mother insisted upon walking some of the time, though, leaning upon my shoulder.

She asked for Lusanne as soon as we began preparation to take up the day’s march. I tried to make her believe Lusanne was further back in the company—“helping a sick lady,” I said. But mother read my eyes—she knew I was trying to deceive her.

“Don’t be afraid, little Aurora,” she said to me, oh, so very gently; “don’t be afraid to tell me whatever it is—have they stolen her?”

“They tried to take her,” I said, “but—”

I stopped. Mother helped me again. “Did she die? Did they kill her? If they did it was far better, my Aurora.”

Then I could tell her. “They killed her—very quickly—her last words were that God was good to set her free.”

We saw the zaptieh who killed Lusanne, during the