It was over at length; a simple operation in which I exhibited--I
believe that is the medical term--a strong solution of caustic applied
with a feather.

"There, Mother," I said, for now we were alone in the hut, whence Scowl
had fled, badly bitten in the calf, "you won't die now."

"No, you vile White Man," she sobbed. "I shan't die, but how about my
beauty?"

"It will be greater than ever," I answered; "no one else will have an
ear with such a curve in it. But, talking of beauty, where is Mameena?"

"I don't know where she is," she replied with fury, "but I very well
know where she would be if I had my way. That peeled willow-wand of a
girl"--here she added certain descriptive epithets I will not
repeat--"has brought this misfortune upon me. We had a slight quarrel
yesterday, White Man, and, being a witch as she is, she prophesied evil.
Yes, when by accident I scratched her ear, she said that before long
mine should burn, and surely burn it does." (This, no doubt, was true,
for the caustic had begun to bite.)

"O devil of a White Man," she went on, "you have bewitched me; you have
filled my head with fire."

Then she seized an earthenware pot and hurled it at me, saying, "Take
that for your doctor-fee. Go, crawl after Mameena like the others and
get her to doctor you."