"Not interest you! Well, that is amazing! Not int--Why, my goodness,
woman, that's not half of it. The major's scalp's all gone; he hasn't
enough fuzz on his head to make a camel's-hair pencil; he has a stake
through his body, and he's been burnt until he is all doubled up in a
hard knot; and, in my private opinion, it's mighty unlikely he'll ever
be untied and straightened out again. If that doesn't fetch you, you
must have a heart of stone."

"I don't care anything about it, sir. It's none of my business."

"Well, then, as long as you're so indifferent, let me tell you, plump
and plain, that the major's dead as Julius Cæsar! The Indians killed
him, burnt him and minced him up! Now, that's the solemn truth, and
his last words to me were, 'Break the news gently to Maria.' You see
the man loved you. He cared more for you than you seemed to do for
him. He would have welcomed death if he had known you had ceased to
love him."

"What did you say his last words were?"

"Why, just before his soul took its eternal flight he whispered
something in my ear. Then I made a sudden dash and escaped from the
savages, to bring his message back to you. That message was: 'Break
the news gently to Maria.' That's what the major said with his dying
lips."

"Well, then, why don't you break the news to Maria?"

"Madam, such levity is untimely. I have broken it--broken it gently.
You have heard it all."