prompt:
Chapter: We were eighteen days travelling to Riolama, on the last two making
little progress, on account of continuous rain, which made us miserable
beyond description. Fortunately the dogs had found, and Nuflo had
succeeded in killing, a great ant-eater, so that we were well supplied
with excellent, strength-giving flesh. We were among the Riolama
mountains at last, and Rima kept with us, apparently expecting great
things. I expected nothing, for reasons to be stated by and by. My
belief was that the only important thing that could happen to us would
be starvation.

The afternoon of the last day was spent in skirting the foot of a very
long mountain, crowned at its southern extremity with a huge, rocky mass
resembling the head of a stone sphinx above its long, couchant body, and
at its highest part about a thousand feet above the surrounding level.
It was late in the day, raining fast again, yet the old man still toiled
on, contrary to his usual practice, which was to spend the last daylight
hours in gathering firewood and in constructing a shelter. At length,
when we were nearly under the peak, he began to ascend. The rise in this
place was gentle, and the vegetation, chiefly composed of dwarf thorn
trees rooted in the clefts of the rock, scarcely impeded our progress;
yet Nuflo moved obliquely, as if he found the ascent difficult, pausing
frequently to take breath and look round him. Then we came to a deep,
ravine-like cleft in the side of the mountain, which became deeper and
narrower above us, but below it broadened out to a valley; its steep
sides as we looked down were clothed with dense, thorny vegetation, and
from the bottom rose to our ears the dull sound of a hidden torrent.
Along the border of this ravine Nuflo began toiling upwards, and finally
brought us out upon a stony plateau on the mountain-side. Here he paused
and, turning and regarding us with a look as of satisfied malice in his
eyes, remarked that we were at our journey's end, and he trusted the
sight of that barren mountain-side would compensate us for all the
discomforts we had suffered during the last eighteen days.

I heard him with indifference. I had already recognized the place from
his own exact description of it, and I now saw all that I had looked to
see--a big, barren hill. But Rima, what had she expected that her face
wore that blank look of surprise and pain? "Is this the place where
mother appeared to you?" she suddenly cried. "The very place--this!
This!" Then she added: "The cave where you tended her--where is it?"

"Over there," he said, pointing across the plateau, which was partially
overgrown with dwarf trees and bushes, and ended at a wall of rock,
almost vertical and about forty feet high.

Going to this precipice, we saw no cave until Nuflo had cut away two or
three tangled bushes, revealing an opening behind, about half as high
and twice as wide as the door of an ordinary dwelling-house.

The next thing was to make a torch, and aided by its light we groped our
way in and explored the interior. The cave, we found, was about fifty
feet long, narrowing to a mere hole at the extremity; but the anterior
portion formed an oblong chamber, very lofty, with a dry floor. Leaving
our torch burning, we set to work cutting bushes to supply ourselves
with wood enough to last us all night. Nuflo, poor old man, loved a big
fire dearly; a big fire and fat meat to eat (the ranker its flavour, the
better he liked it) were to him the greatest blessings that man could
wish for. In me also the prospect of a cheerful blaze put a new heart,
and I worked with a will in the rain, which increased in the end to a
blinding downpour.

By the time I dragged my last load in, Nuflo had got his fire well
alight, and was heaping on wood in a most lavish way. "No fear of
burning our house down tonight," he remarked, with a chuckle--the first
sound of that description he had emitted for a long time.

After we had satisfied our hunger, and had smoked one or two cigarettes,
the unaccustomed warmth, and dryness, and the firelight affected us with
drowsiness, and I had probably been nodding for some time; but starting
at last and opening my eyes, I missed Rima. The old man appeared to be
asleep, although still in a sitting posture close to the fire. I rose
and hurried out, drawing my cloak close around me to protect me from the
rain; but what was my surprise on emerging from the cave to feel a dry,
bracing wind in my face and to see the desert spread out for leagues
before me in the brilliant white light of a full moon! The rain had
apparently long ceased, and only a few thin white clouds appeared moving
swiftly over the wide blue expanse of heaven. It was a welcome change,
but the shock of surprise and pleasure was instantly succeeded by
the maddening fear that Rima was lost to me. She was nowhere in sight
beneath, and running to the end of the little plateau to get free of
the thorn trees, I turned my eyes towards the summit, and there, at some
distance above me, caught sight of her standing motionless and gazing
upwards. I quickly made my way to her side, calling to her as I
approached; but she only half turned to cast a look at me and did not
reply.

"Rima," I said, "why have you come here? Are you actually thinking of
climbing the mountain at this hour of the night?" "Yes--why not?" she
returned, moving one or two steps from me.

"Rima--sweet Rima, will you listen to me?"

"Now? Oh, no--why do you ask that? Did I not listen to you in the wood
before we started, and you also promised to do what I wished? See, the
rain is over and the moon shines brightly. Why should I wait? Perhaps
from the summit I shall see my people's country. Are we not near it
now?"

"Oh, Rima, what do you expect to see? Listen--you must listen, for I
know best. From that summit you would see nothing but a vast dim desert,
mountain and forest, mountain and forest, where you might wander for
years, or until you perished of hunger or fever, or were slain by some
beast of prey or by savage men; but oh, Rima, never, never, never would
you find your people, for they exist not. You have seen the false water
of the mirage on the savannah, when the sun shines bright and hot; and
if one were to follow it one would at last fall down and perish,
with never a cool drop to moisten one's parched lips. And your hope,
Rima--this hope to find your people which has brought you all the way to
Riolama--is a mirage, a delusion, which will lead to destruction if you
will not abandon it."

She turned to face me with flashing eyes. "You know best!" she
exclaimed. "You know best and tell me that! Never until this moment have
you spoken falsely. Oh, why have you said such things to me--named after
this place, Riolama? Am I also like that false water you speak of--no
divine Rima, no sweet Rima? My mother, had she no mother, no mother's
mother? I remember her, at Voa, before she died, and this hand seems
real--like yours; you have asked to hold it. But it is not he that
speaks to me--not one that showed me the whole world on Ytaioa. Ah, you
have wrapped yourself in a stolen cloak, only you have left your old
grey beard behind! Go back to the cave and look for it, and leave me to
seek my people alone!"

Once more, as on that day in the forest when she prevented me from
killing the serpent, and as on the occasion of her meeting with Nuflo
after we had been together on Ytaioa, she appeared transformed and
instinct with intense resentment--a beautiful human wasp, and every word
a sting.

"Rima," I cried, "you are cruelly unjust to say such words to me. If you
know that I have never deceived you before, give me a little credit now.
You are no delusion--no mirage, but Rima, like no other being on earth.
So perfectly truthful and pure I cannot be, but rather than mislead you
with falsehoods I would drop down and die on this rock, and lose you and
the sweet light that shines on us for ever."

As she listened to my words, spoken with passion, she grew pale and
clasped her hands. "What have I said? What have I said?" She spoke in a
low voice charged with pain, and all at once she came nearer, and with
a low, sobbing cry sank down at my feet, uttering, as on the occasion of
finding me lost at night in the forest near her home, tender, sorrowful
expressions in her own mysterious language. But before I could take her
in my arms she rose again quickly to her feet and moved away a little
space from me.

"Oh no, no, it cannot be that you know best!" she began again. "But
I know that you have never sought to deceive me. And now, because I
falsely accused you, I cannot go there without you"--pointing to the
summit--"but must stand still and listen to all you have to say."

"You know, Rima, that your grandfather has now told me your history--how
he found your mother at this place, and took her to Voa, where you were
born; but of your mother's people he knows nothing, and therefore he can
now take you no further."

"Ah, you think that! He says that now; but he deceived me all these
years, and if he lied to me in the past, can he not still lie, affirming
that he knows nothing of my people, even as he affirmed that he knew not
Riolama?"

"He tells lies and he tells truth, Rima, and one can be distinguished
from the other. He spoke truthfully at last, and brought us to this
place, beyond which he cannot lead you."

"You are right; I must go alone."

"Not so, Rima, for where you go, there we must go; only you will lead
and we follow, believing only that our quest will end in disappointment,
if not in death."

"Believe that and yet follow! Oh no! Why did he consent to lead me so
far for nothing?"

"Do you forget that you compelled him? You know what he believes; and he
is old and looks with fear at death, remembering his evil deeds, and is
convinced that only through your intercession and your mother's he can
escape from perdition. Consider, Rima, he could not refuse, to make you
more angry and so deprive himself of his only hope."

My words seemed to trouble her, but very soon she spoke again with
renewed animation. "If my people exist, why must it be disappointment
and perhaps death? He does not know; but she came to him here--did she
not? The others are not here, but perhaps not far off. Come, let us go
to the summit together to see from it the desert beneath us--mountain
and forest, mountain and forest. Somewhere there! You said that I had
knowledge of distant things. And shall I not know which mountain--which
forest?"

"Alas! no, Rima; there is a limit to your far-seeing; and even if that
faculty were as great as you imagine, it would avail you nothing, for
there is no mountain, no forest, in whose shadow your people dwell."

For a while she was silent, but her eyes and clasping fingers were
restless and showed her agitation. She seemed to be searching in the
depths of her mind for some argument to oppose to my assertions. Then
in a low, almost despondent voice, with something of reproach in it, she
said: "Have we come so far to go back again? You were not Nuflo to need
my intercession, yet you came too."

"Where you are, there I must be--you have said it yourself. Besides,
when we started I had some hope of finding your people. Now I know
better, having heard Nuflo's story. Now I know that your hope is a vain
one."

"Why? Why? Was she not found here--mother? Where, then, are the others?"

"Yes, she was found here, alone. You must remember all the things
she spoke to you before she died. Did she ever speak to you of her
people--speak of them as if they existed, and would be glad to receive
you among them some day?"

"No. Why did she not speak of that? Do you know--can you tell me?"

"I can guess the reason, Rima. It is very sad--so sad that it is hard to
tell it. When Nuflo tended her in the cave and was ready to worship
her and do everything she wished, and conversed with her by signs, she
showed no wish to return to her people. And when he offered her, in a
way she understood, to take her to a distant place, where she would be
among strange beings, among others like Nuflo, she readily consented,
and painfully performed that long journey to Voa. Would you, Rima, have
acted thus--would you have gone so far away from your beloved people,
never to return, never to hear of them or speak to them again? Oh no,
you could not; nor would she if her people had been in existence. But
she knew that she had survived them, that some great calamity had
fallen upon and destroyed them. They were few in number, perhaps, and
surrounded on every side by hostile tribes, and had no weapons, and made
no war. They had been preserved because they inhabited a place apart,
some deep valley perhaps, guarded on all sides by lofty mountains and
impenetrable forests and marshes; but at last the cruel savages broke
into this retreat and hunted them down, destroying all except a few
fugitives, who escaped singly like your mother, and fled away to hide in
some distant solitude."

The anxious expression on her face deepened as she listened to one of
anguish and despair; and then, almost before I concluded, she suddenly
lifted her hands to her head, uttering a low, sobbing cry, and would
have fallen on the rock had I not caught her quickly in my arms. Once
more in my arms--against my breast, her proper place! But now all that
bright life seemed gone out of her; her head fell on my shoulder, and
there was no motion in her except at intervals a slight shudder in her
frame accompanied by a low, gasping sob. In a little while the sobs
ceased, the eyes were closed, the face still and deathly white, and with
a terrible anxiety in my heart I carried her down to the cave.

As I re-entered the cave with my burden Nuflo sat up and stared at me
with a frightened look in his eyes. Throwing my cloak down, I placed the
girl on it and briefly related what had happened.

He drew near to examine her; then placed his hand on her heart.
"Dead!--she is dead!" he exclaimed.

My own anxiety changed to an irrational anger at his words. "Old fool!
She has only fainted," I returned. "Get me some water, quick."

But the water failed to restore her, and my anxiety deepened as I gazed
on that white, still face. Oh, why had I told her that sad tragedy I had
imagined with so little preparation? Alas! I had succeeded too well in
my purpose, killing her vain hope and her at the same moment.

The old man, still bending over her, spoke again. "No, I will not
believe that she is dead yet; but, sir, if not dead, then she is dying."

I could have struck him down for his words. "She will die in my arms,
then," I exclaimed, thrusting him roughly aside, and lifting her up with
the cloak beneath her.

And while I held her thus, her head resting on my arm, and gazed with
unutterable anguish into her strangely white face, insanely praying to
Heaven to restore her to me, Nuflo fell on his knees before her, and
with bowed head, and hands clasped in supplication, began to speak.

"Rima! Grandchild!" he prayed, his quivering voice betraying his
agitation. "Do not die just yet: you must not die--not wholly die--until
you have heard what I have to say to you. I do not ask you to answer
in words--you are past that, and I am not unreasonable. Only, when I
finish, make some sign--a sigh, a movement of the eyelid, a twitch of
the lips, even in the small corners of the mouth; nothing more than
that, just to show that you have heard, and I shall be satisfied.
Remember all the years that I have been your protector, and this long
journey that I have taken on your account; also all that I did for
your sainted mother before she died at Voa, to become one of the most
important of those who surround the Queen of Heaven, and who, when they
wish for any favour, have only to say half a word to get it. And do not
cast in oblivion that at the last I obeyed your wish and brought you
safely to Riolama. It is true that in some small things I deceived you;
but that must not weigh with you, because it is a small matter and not
worthy of mention when you consider the claims I have on you. In your
hands, Rima, I leave everything, relying on the promise you made me, and
on my services. Only one word of caution remains to be added. Do not let
the magnificence of the place you are now about to enter, the new sights
and colours, and the noise of shouting, and musical instruments and
blowing of trumpets, put these things out of your head. Nor must you
begin to think meanly of yourself and be abashed when you find yourself
surrounded by saints and angels; for you are not less than they,
although it may not seem so at first when you see them in their bright
clothes, which, they say, shine like the sun. I cannot ask you to tie
a string round your finger; I can only trust to your memory, which was
always good, even about the smallest things; and when you are asked, as
no doubt you will be, to express a wish, remember before everything to
speak of your grandfather, and his claims on you, also on your angelic
mother, to whom you will present my humble remembrances."

During this petition, which in other circumstances would have moved me
to laughter but now only irritated me, a subtle change seemed to come
to the apparently lifeless girl to make me hope. The small hand in mine
felt not so icy cold, and though no faintest colour had come to the
face, its pallor had lost something of its deathly waxen appearance; and
now the compressed lips had relaxed a little and seemed ready to part.
I laid my finger-tips on her heart and felt, or imagined that I felt,
a faint fluttering; and at last I became convinced that her heart was
really beating.

I turned my eyes on the old man, still bending forward, intently
watching for the sign he had asked her to make. My anger and disgust
at his gross earthy egoism had vanished. "Let us thank God, old man,"
I said, the tears of joy half choking my utterance. "She lives--she is
recovering from her fit."

He drew back, and on his knees, with bowed head, murmured a prayer of
thanks to Heaven.

Together we continued watching her face for half an hour longer, I
still holding her in my arms, which could never grow weary of that sweet
burden, waiting for other, surer signs of returning life; and she seemed
now like one that had fallen into a profound, death-like sleep which
must end in death. Yet when I remembered her face as it had looked an
hour ago, I was confirmed in the belief that the progress to recovery,
so strangely slow, was yet sure. So slow, so gradual was this passing
from death to life that we had hardly ceased to fear when we noticed
that the lips were parted, or almost parted, that they were no longer
white, and that under her pale, transparent skin a faint, bluish-rosy
colour was now visible. And at length, seeing that all danger was past
and recovery so slow, old Nuflo withdrew once more to the fireside and,
stretching himself out on the sandy floor, soon fell into a deep sleep.

If he had not been lying there before me in the strong light of the
glowing embers and dancing flames, I could not have felt more alone with
Rima--alone amid those remote mountains, in that secret cavern, with
lights and shadows dancing on its grey vault. In that profound silence
and solitude the mysterious loveliness of the still face I continued
to gaze on, its appearance of life without consciousness, produced a
strange feeling in me, hard, perhaps impossible, to describe.

Once, when clambering among the rough rocks, overgrown with forest,
among the Queneveta mountains, I came on a single white flower which was
new to me, which I have never seen since. After I had looked long at it,
and passed on, the image of that perfect flower remained so persistently
in my mind that on the following day I went again, in the hope of seeing
it still untouched by decay. There was no change; and on this occasion
I spent a much longer time looking at it, admiring the marvellous
beauty of its form, which seemed so greatly to exceed that of all
other flowers. It had thick petals, and at first gave me the idea of an
artificial flower, cut by a divinely inspired artist from some unknown
precious stone, of the size of a large orange and whiter than milk, and
yet, in spite of its opacity, with a crystalline lustre on the surface.
Next day I went again, scarcely hoping to find it still unwithered; it
was fresh as if only just opened; and after that I went often, sometimes
at intervals of several days, and still no faintest sign of any change,
the clear, exquisite lines still undimmed, the purity and lustre as
I had first seen it. Why, I often asked, does not this mystic forest
flower fade and perish like others? That first impression of its
artificial appearance had soon left me; it was, indeed, a flower, and,
like other flowers, had life and growth, only with that transcendent
beauty it had a different kind of life. Unconscious, but higher; perhaps
immortal. Thus it would continue to bloom when I had looked my last
on it; wind and rain and sunlight would never stain, never tinge, its
sacred purity; the savage Indian, though he sees little to admire in a
flower, yet seeing this one would veil his face and turn back; even
the browsing beast crashing his way through the forest, struck with
its strange glory, would swerve aside and pass on without harming it.
Afterwards I heard from some Indians to whom I described it that
the flower I had discovered was called Hata; also that they had a
superstition concerning it--a strange belief. They said that only one
Hata flower existed in the world; that it bloomed in one spot for the
space of a moon; that on the disappearance of the moon in the sky the
Hata disappeared from its place, only to reappear blooming in some
other spot, sometimes in some distant forest. And they also said that
whosoever discovered the Hata flower in the forest would overcome all
his enemies and obtain all his desires, and finally outlive other men
by many years. But, as I have said, all this I heard afterwards, and my
half-superstitious feeling for the flower had grown up independently
in my own mind. A feeling like that was in me while I gazed on the face
that had no motion, no consciousness in it, and yet had life, a life of
so high a kind as to match with its pure, surpassing loveliness. I could
almost believe that, like the forest flower, in this state and aspect it
would endure for ever; endure and perhaps give of its own immortality to
everything around it--to me, holding her in my arms and gazing fixedly
on the pale face framed in its cloud of dark, silken hair; to the
leaping flames that threw changing lights on the dim stony wall of
rock; to old Nuflo and his two yellow dogs stretched out on the floor in
eternal, unawakening sleep.

This feeling took such firm possession of my mind that it kept me for
a time as motionless as the form I held in my arms. I was only released
from its power by noting still further changes in the face I watched,
a more distinct advance towards conscious life. The faint colour,
which had scarcely been more than a suspicion of colour, had deepened
perceptibly; the lids were lifted so as to show a gleam of the crystal
orbs beneath; the lips, too, were slightly parted.

And, at last, bending lower down to feel her breath, the beauty and
sweetness of those lips could no longer be resisted, and I touched them
with mine. Having once tasted their sweetness and fragrance, it was
impossible to keep from touching them again and again. She was not
conscious--how could she be and not shrink from my caress? Yet there
was a suspicion in my mind, and drawing back I gazed into her face once
more. A strange new radiance had overspread it. Or was this only an
illusive colour thrown on her skin by the red firelight? I shaded her
face with my open hand, and saw that her pallor had really gone, that
the rosy flame on her cheeks was part of her life. Her lustrous eyes,
half open, were gazing into mine. Oh, surely consciousness had returned
to her! Had she been sensible of those stolen kisses? Would she now
shrink from another caress? Trembling, I bent down and touched her lips
again, lightly, but lingeringly, and then again, and when I drew back
and looked at her face the rosy flame was brighter, and the eyes,
more open still, were looking into mine. And gazing with those open,
conscious eyes, it seemed to me that at last, at last, the shadow that
had rested between us had vanished, that we were united in perfect love
and confidence, and that speech was superfluous. And when I spoke, it
was not without doubt and hesitation: our bliss in those silent moments
had been so complete, what could speaking do but make it less!

"My love, my life, my sweet Rima, I know that you will understand me
now as you did not before, on that dark night--do you remember it,
Rima?--when I held you clasped to my breast in the wood. How it pierced
my heart with pain to speak plainly to you as I did on the mountain
tonight--to kill the hope that had sustained and brought you so far from
home! But now that anguish is over; the shadow has gone out of those
beautiful eyes that are looking at me. It is because loving me, knowing
now what love is, knowing, too, how much I love you, that you no longer
need to speak to any other living being of such things? To tell it, to
show it, to me is now enough--is it not so, Rima? How strange it seemed,
at first, when you shrank in fear from me! But, afterwards, when you
prayed aloud to your mother, opening all the secrets of your heart, I
understood it. In that lonely, isolated life in the wood you had heard
nothing of love, of its power over the heart, its infinite sweetness;
when it came to you at last it was a new, inexplicable thing, and filled
you with misgivings and tumultuous thoughts, so that you feared it and
hid yourself from its cause. Such tremors would be felt if it had always
been night, with no light except that of the stars and the pale moon, as
we saw it a little while ago on the mountain; and, at last, day dawned,
and a strange, unheard-of rose and purple flame kindled in the eastern
sky, foretelling the coming sun. It would seem beautiful beyond anything
that night had shown to you, yet you would tremble and your heart beat
fast at that strange sight; you would wish to fly to those who might be
able to tell you its meaning, and whether the sweet things it prophesied
would ever really come. That is why you wished to find your people, and
came to Riolama to seek them; and when you knew--when I cruelly told
you--that they would never be found, then you imagined that that strange
feeling in your heart must remain a secret for ever, and you could
not endure the thought of your loneliness. If you had not fainted so
quickly, then I should have told you what I must tell you now. They are
lost, Rima--your people--but I am with you, and know what you feel, even
if you have no words to tell it. But what need of words? It shines in
your eyes, it burns like a flame in your face; I can feel it in your
hands. Do you not also see it in my face--all that I feel for you, the
love that makes me happy? For this is love, Rima, the flower and the
melody of life, the sweetest thing, the sweet miracle that makes our two
souls one."

Still resting in my arms, as if glad to rest there, still gazing into
my face, it was clear to me that she understood my every word. And then,
with no trace of doubt or fear left, I stooped again, until my lips were
on hers; and when I drew back once more, hardly knowing which bliss was
greatest--kissing her delicate mouth or gazing into her face--she all at
once put her arms about my neck and drew herself up until she sat on my
knee.

"Abel--shall I call you Abel now--and always?" she spoke, still with
her arms round my neck. "Ah, why did you let me come to Riolama? I would
come! I made him come--old grandfather, sleeping there: he does not
count, but you--you! After you had heard my story, and knew that it was
all for nothing! And all I wished to know was there--in you. Oh, how
sweet it is! But a little while ago, what pain! When I stood on the
mountain when you talked to me, and I knew that you knew best, and tried
and tried not to know. At last I could try no more; they were all dead
like mother; I had chased the false water on the savannah. 'Oh, let me
die too,' I said, for I could not bear the pain. And afterwards, here in
the cave, I was like one asleep, and when I woke I did not really wake.
It was like morning with the light teasing me to open my eyes and look
at it. Not yet, dear light; a little while longer, it is so sweet to lie
still. But it would not leave me, and stayed teasing me still, like a
small shining green fly; until, because it teased me so, I opened my
lids just a little. It was not morning, but the firelight, and I was in
your arms, not in my little bed. Your eyes looking, looking into mine.
But I could see yours better. I remembered everything then, how you once
asked me to look into your eyes. I remembered so many things--oh, so
many!"

"How many things did you remember, Rima?"

"Listen, Abel, do you ever lie on the dry moss and look straight up into
a tree and count a thousand leaves?"

"No, sweetest, that could not be done, it is so many to count. Do you
know how many a thousand are?"

"Oh, do I not! When a humming-bird flies close to my face and stops
still in the air, humming like a bee, and then is gone, in that short
time I can count a hundred small round bright feathers on its throat.
That is only a hundred; a thousand are more, ten times. Looking up I
count a thousand leaves; then stop counting, because there are thousands
more behind the first, and thousands more, crowded together so that I
cannot count them. Lying in your arms, looking up into your face, it was
like that; I could not count the things I remembered. In the wood, when
you were there, and before; and long, long ago at Voa, when I was a
child with mother."

"Tell me some of the things you remembered, Rima."

"Yes, one--only one now. When I was a child at Voa mother was very
lame--you know that. Whenever we went out, away from the houses, into
the forest, walking slowly, slowly, she would sit under a tree while I
ran about playing. And every time I came back to her I would find her so
pale, so sad, crying--crying. That was when I would hide and come softly
back so that she would not hear me coming. 'Oh, mother, why are you
crying? Does your lame foot hurt you?' And one day she took me in her
arms and told me truly why she cried."

She ceased speaking, but looked at me with a strange new light coming
into her eyes.

"Why did she cry, my love?"

"Oh, Abel, can you understand--now--at last!" And putting her lips
close to my ear, she began to murmur soft, melodious sounds that told
me nothing. Then drawing back her head, she looked again at me, her eyes
glistening with tears, her lips half parted with a smile, tender and
wistful.

Ah, poor child! in spite of all that had been said, all that had
happened, she had returned to the old delusion that I must understand
her speech. I could only return her look, sorrowfully and in silence.

Her face became clouded with disappointment, then she spoke again with
something of pleading in her tone. "Look, we are not now apart, I hiding
in the wood, you seeking, but together, saying the same things. In
your language--yours and now mine. But before you came I knew nothing,
nothing, for there was only grandfather to talk to. A few words each
day, the same words. If yours is mine, mine must be yours. Oh, do you
not know that mine is better?"

"Yes, better; but alas! Rima, I can never hope to understand your sweet
speech, much less to speak it. The bird that only chirps and twitters
can never sing like the organ-bird."

Crying, she hid her face against my neck, murmuring sadly between her
sobs: "Never--never!"

How strange it seemed, in that moment of joy, such a passion of tears,
such despondent words!

For some minutes I preserved a sorrowful silence, realizing for the
first time, so far as it was possible to realize such a thing, what my
inability to understand her secret language meant to her--that finer
language in which alone her swift thoughts and vivid emotions could be
expressed. Easily and well as she seemed able to declare herself in my
tongue, I could well imagine that to her it would seem like the merest
stammering. As she had said to me once when I asked her to speak in
Spanish, "That is not speaking." And so long as she could not commune
with me in that better language, which reflected her mind, there would
not be that perfect union of soul she so passionately desired.

By and by, as she grew calmer, I sought to say something that would be
consoling to both of us. "Sweetest Rima," I spoke, "it is so sad that
I can never hope to talk with you in your way; but a greater love than
this that is ours we could never feel, and love will make us happy,
unutterably happy, in spite of that one sadness. And perhaps, after a
while, you will be able to say all you wish in my language, which is
also yours, as you said some time ago. When we are back again in the
beloved wood, and talk once more under that tree where we first talked,
and under the old mora, where you hid yourself and threw down leaves
on me, and where you caught the little spider to show me how you made
yourself a dress, you shall speak to me in your own sweet tongue, and
then try to say the same things in mine.... And in the end, perhaps, you
will find that it is not so impossible as you think."

She looked at me, smiling again through her tears, and shook her head a
little.

"Remember what I have heard, that before your mother died you were able
to tell Nuflo and the priest what her wish was. Can you not, in the same
way, tell me why she cried?"

"I can tell you, but it will not be telling you."

"I understand. You can tell the bare facts. I can imagine something
more, and the rest I must lose. Tell me, Rima."

Her face became troubled; she glanced away and let her eyes wander round
the dim, firelit cavern; then they returned to mine once more.

"Look," she said, "grandfather lying asleep by the fire. So far away
from us--oh, so far! But if we were to go out from the cave, and on and
on to the great mountains where the city of the sun is, and stood there
at last in the midst of great crowds of people, all looking at us,
talking to us, it would be just the same. They would be like the trees
and rocks and animals--so far! Not with us nor we with them. But we are
everywhere alone together, apart--we two. It is love; I know it now, but
I did not know it before because I had forgotten what she told me. Do
you think I can tell you what she said when I asked her why she cried?
Oh no! Only this, she and another were like one, always, apart from
the others. Then something came--something came! O Abel, was that the
something you told me about on the mountain? And the other was lost for
ever, and she was alone in the forests and mountains of the world. Oh,
why do we cry for what is lost? Why do we not quickly forget it and feel
glad again? Now only do I know what you felt, O sweet mother, when you
sat still and cried, while I ran about and played and laughed! O poor
mother! Oh, what pain!" And hiding her face against my neck, she sobbed
once more.

To my eyes also love and sympathy brought the tears; but in a little
while the fond, comforting words I spoke and my caresses recalled her
from that sad past to the present; then, lying back as at first,
her head resting on my folded cloak, her body partly supported by my
encircling arm and partly by the rock we were leaning against,
her half-closed eyes turned to mine expressed a tender assured
happiness--the chastened gladness of sunshine after rain; a soft
delicious languor that was partly passionate with the passion
etherealized.

"Tell me, Rima," I said, bending down to her, "in all those troubled
days with me in the woods had you no happy moments? Did not something in
your heart tell you that it was sweet to love, even before you knew what
love meant?"

"Yes; and once--O Abel, do you remember that night, after returning from
Ytaioa, when you sat so late talking by the fire--I in the shadow, never
stirring, listening, listening; you by the fire with the light on your
face, saying so many strange things? I was happy then--oh, how happy! It
was black night and raining, and I a plant growing in the dark, feeling
the sweet raindrops falling, falling on my leaves. Oh, it will be
morning by and by and the sun will shine on my wet leaves; and that
made me glad till I trembled with happiness. Then suddenly the lightning
would come, so bright, and I would tremble with fear, and wish that
it would be dark again. That was when you looked at me sitting in the
shadow, and I could not take my eyes away quickly and could not meet
yours, so that I trembled with fear."

"And now there is no fear--no shadow; now you are perfectly happy?"

"Oh, so happy! If the way back to the wood was longer, ten times, and
if the great mountains, white with snow on their tops, were between, and
the great dark forest, and rivers wider than Orinoco, still I would go
alone without fear, because you would come after me, to join me in the
wood, to be with me at last and always."

"But I should not let you go alone, Rima--your lonely days are over
now."

She opened her eyes wider and looked earnestly into my face. "I must go
back alone, Abel," she said. "Before day comes I must leave you. Rest
here, with grandfather, for a few days and nights, then follow me."

I heard her with astonishment. "It must not be, Rima," I cried. "What,
let you leave me--now you are mine--to go all that distance, through all
that wild country where you might lose yourself and perish alone? Oh, do
not think of it!"

She listened, regarding me with some slight trouble in her eyes, but
smiling a little at the same time. Her small hand moved up my arm and
caressed my cheek; then she drew my face down to hers until our lips
met. But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw that she had not
consented to my wish. "Do I not know all the way now," she spoke, "all
the mountains, rivers, forests--how should I lose myself? And I must
return quickly, not step by step, walking--resting, resting--walking,
stopping to cook and eat, stopping to gather firewood, to make a
shelter--so many things! Oh, I shall be back in half the time; and I
have so much to do."

"What can you have to do, love?--everything can be done when we are in
the wood together."

A bright smile with a touch of mockery in it flitted over her face as
she replied: "Oh, must I tell you that there are things you cannot do?
Look, Abel," and she touched the slight garment she wore, thinner now
than at first, and dulled by long exposure to sun and wind and rain.

I could not command her, and seemed powerless to persuade her; but I had
not done yet, and proceeded to use every argument I could find to bring
her round to my view; and when I finished she put her arms around my
neck and drew herself up once more. "O Abel, how happy I shall be!" she
said, taking no notice of all I had said. "Think of me alone, days and
days, in the wood, waiting for you, working all the time; saying: 'Come
quickly, Abel; come slow, Abel. O Abel, how long you are! Oh, do not
come until my work is finished!' And when it is finished and you arrive
you shall find me, but not at once. First you will seek for me in the
house, then in the wood, calling: 'Rima! Rima!' And she will be there,
listening, hid in the trees, wishing to be in your arms, wishing for
your lips--oh, so glad, yet fearing to show herself. Do you know why?
He told you--did he not?--that when he first saw her she was standing
before him all in white--a dress that was like snow on the mountain-tops
when the sun is setting and gives it rose and purple colour. I shall
be like that, hidden among the trees, saying: 'Am I different--not like
Rima? Will he know me--will he love me just the same?' Oh, do I not
know that you will be glad, and love me, and call me beautiful? Listen!
Listen!" she suddenly exclaimed, lifting her face.

Among the bushes not far from the cave's mouth a small bird had broken
out in song, a clear, tender melody soon taken up by other birds further
away.

"It will soon be morning," she said, and then clasped her arms about me
once more and held me in a long, passionate embrace; then slipping away
from my arms and with one swift glance at the sleeping old man, passed
out of the cave.

For a few moments I remained sitting, not yet realizing that she had
left me, so suddenly and swiftly had she passed from my arms and my
sight; then, recovering my faculties, I started up and rushed out in
hopes of overtaking her.

It was not yet dawn, but there was still some light from the full
moon, now somewhere behind the mountains. Running to the verge of the
bushgrown plateau, I explored the rocky slope beneath without seeing her
form, and then called: "Rima! Rima!"

A soft, warbling sound, uttered by no bird, came up from the shadowy
bushes far below; and in that direction I ran on; then pausing, called
again. The sweet sound was repeated once more, but much lower down now,
and so faintly that I scarcely heard it. And when I went on further
and called again and again, there was no reply, and I knew that she had
indeed gone on that long journey alone.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After eighteen days, the three travelers arrive at the cave where Nuflo had first seen Rima's mother. No one is in the vicinity, of course, but Rima, still hopeful, climbs a nearby mountain to try to see some signs of human life. Abel follows her and endeavors again to convince Rima that the bird people no longer exist. Although Rima becomes angry and resentful at Abel's logical arguments, she finally listens to his frank, honest analysis of what probably happened to her mother's people. Abel's deduction that they were destroyed by hostile Indians so upsets the sensitive and overwrought girl that she falls unconscious, and Abel, alarmed, carries her back to the cave. Nuflo, believing that Rima is dying, begs her not to forget her promise to pray for his salvation in the afterlife; and Abel is annoyed by the old man's selfishness during this crisis. Watching over Rima, Abel observes that she is gradually regaining consciousness. He kisses her, and she awakens fully. They declare their love for one another although Rima still regrets the loss of any of her own people with whom she could speak more intimately in their mysterious language. Abel and Rima make plans to live together in the forest, but Rima suddenly insists that she must go back immediately to the woodland in order to make new clothes for herself. She wants to welcome Abel when he and Nuflo come back to the "green mansions" as Nuflo first saw her mother, "standing before him, all in white -- a dress that was like snow on the mountain-tops, when the sun is setting and gives it rose and purple colour." Stunned by this surprising decision and fearing for her safety, Abel is too dismayed at the thought of their separation to argue rationally with Rima. By the time he can run after her, Rima has already vanished "on that long journey alone."


prompt:
Chapter: When Nuflo at length opened his eyes he found me sitting alone and
despondent by the fire, just returned from my vain chase. I had been
caught in a heavy mist on the mountain-side, and was wet through as well
as weighed down by fatigue and drowsiness, consequent upon the previous
day's laborious march and my night-long vigil; yet I dared not think of
rest. She had gone from me, and I could not have prevented it; yet the
thought that I had allowed her to slip out of my arms, to go away alone
on that long, perilous journey, was as intolerable as if I had consented
to it.

Nuflo was at first startled to hear of her sudden departure; but he
laughed at my fears, affirming that after having once been over the
ground she could not lose herself; that she would be in no danger from
the Indians, as she would invariably see them at a distance and avoid
them, and that wild beasts, serpents, and other evil creatures would do
her no harm. The small amount of food she required to sustain life could
be found anywhere; furthermore, her journey would not be interrupted
by bad weather, since rain and heat had no effect on her. In the end he
seemed pleased that she had left us, saying that with Rima in the wood
the house and cultivated patch and hidden provisions and implements
would be safe, for no Indian would venture to come where she was. His
confidence reassured me, and casting myself down on the sandy floor of
the cave, I fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until evening; then
I only woke to share a meal with the old man, and sleep again until the
following day.

Nuflo was not ready to start yet; he was enamoured of the unaccustomed
comforts of a dry sleeping-place and a fire blown about by no wind and
into which fell no hissing raindrops. Not for two days more would he
consent to set out on the return journey, and if he could have persuaded
me our stay at Riolama would have lasted a week.

We had fine weather at starting; but before long it clouded, and then
for upwards of a fortnight we had it wet and stormy, which so hindered
us that it took us twenty-three days to accomplish the return journey,
whereas the journey out had only taken eighteen. The adventures we
met with and the pains we suffered during this long march need not be
related. The rain made us miserable, but we suffered more from hunger
than from any other cause, and on more than one occasion were reduced to
the verge of starvation. Twice we were driven to beg for food at Indian
villages, and as we had nothing to give in exchange for it, we got
very little. It is possible to buy hospitality from the savage without
fish-hooks, nails, and calico; but on this occasion I found myself
without that impalpable medium of exchange which had been so great
a help to me on my first journey to Parahuari. Now I was weak and
miserable and without cunning. It is true that we could have exchanged
the two dogs for cassava bread and corn, but we should then have been
worse off than ever. And in the end the dogs saved us by an occasional
capture--an armadillo surprised in the open and seized before it could
bury itself in the soil, or an iguana, opossum, or labba, traced by
means of their keen sense of smell to its hiding-place. Then Nuflo would
rejoice and feast, rewarding them with the skin, bones, and entrails.
But at length one of the dogs fell lame, and Nuflo, who was very hungry,
made its lameness an excuse for dispatching it, which he did apparently
without compunction, notwithstanding that the poor brute had served
him well in its way. He cut up and smoke-dried the flesh, and the
intolerable pangs of hunger compelled me to share the loathsome food
with him. We were not only indecent, it seemed to me, but cannibals to
feed on the faithful servant that had been our butcher. "But what does
it matter?" I argued with myself. "All flesh, clean and unclean, should
be, and is, equally abhorrent to me, and killing animals a kind of
murder. But now I find myself constrained to do this evil thing that
good may come. Only to live I take it now--this hateful strength-giver
that will enable me to reach Rima, and the purer, better life that is to
be."

During all that time, when we toiled onwards league after league in
silence, or sat silent by the nightly fire, I thought of many things;
but the past, with which I had definitely broken, was little in my mind.
Rima was still the source and centre of all my thoughts; from her they
rose, and to her returned. Thinking, hoping, dreaming, sustained me in
those dark days and nights of pain and privation. Imagination was the
bread that gave me strength, the wine that exhilarated. What sustained
old Nuflo's mind I know not. Probably it was like a chrysalis, dormant,
independent of sustenance; the bright-winged image to be called at some
future time to life by a great shouting of angelic hosts and noises of
musical instruments slept secure, coffined in that dull, gross nature.

The old beloved wood once more! Never did his native village in some
mountain valley seem more beautiful to the Switzer, returning, war-worn,
from long voluntary exile, than did that blue cloud on the horizon--the
forest where Rima dwelt, my bride, my beautiful--and towering over
it the dark cone of Ytaioa, now seem to my hungry eyes! How near at
last--how near! And yet the two or three intervening leagues to be
traversed so slowly, step by step--how vast the distance seemed! Even at
far Riolama, when I set out on my return, I scarcely seemed so far from
my love. This maddening impatience told on my strength, which was small,
and hindered me. I could not run nor even walk fast; old Nuflo, slow,
and sober, with no flame consuming his heart, was more than my equal in
the end, and to keep up with him was all I could do. At the finish he
became silent and cautious, first entering the belt of trees leading
away through the low range of hills at the southern extremity of the
wood. For a mile or upwards we trudged on in the shade; then I began
to recognize familiar ground, the old trees under which I had walked
or sat, and knew that a hundred yards further on there would be a first
glimpse of the palm-leaf thatch. Then all weakness forsook me; with a
low cry of passionate longing and joy I rushed on ahead; but I strained
my eyes in vain for a sight of that sweet shelter; no patch of pale
yellow colour appeared amidst the universal verdure of bushes, creepers,
and trees--trees beyond trees, trees towering above trees.

For some moments I could not realize it. No, I had surely made a
mistake, the house had not stood on that spot; it would appear in sight
a little further on. I took a few uncertain steps onwards, and then
again stood still, my brain reeling, my heart swelling nigh to bursting
with anguish. I was still standing motionless, with hand pressed to my
breast, when Nuflo overtook me. "Where is it--the house?" I stammered,
pointing with my hand. All his stolidity seemed gone now; he was
trembling too, his lips silently moving. At length he spoke: "They
have come--the children of hell have been here, and have destroyed
everything!"

"Rima! What has become of Rima?" I cried; but without replying he walked
on, and I followed.

The house, we soon found, had been burnt down. Not a stick remained.
Where it had stood a heap of black ashes covered the ground--nothing
more. But on looking round we could discover no sign of human beings
having recently visited the spot. A rank growth of grass and herbage now
covered the once clear space surrounding the site of the dwelling, and
the ash-heap looked as if it had been lying there for a month at least.
As to what had become of Rima the old man could say no word. He sat down
on the ground overwhelmed at the calamity: Runi's people had been there,
he could not doubt it, and they would come again, and he could only look
for death at their hands. The thought that Rima had perished, that she
was lost, was unendurable. It could not be! No doubt the Indians tract
come and destroyed the house during our absence; but she had returned,
and they had gone away again to come no more. She would be somewhere in
the forest, perhaps not far off, impatiently waiting our return. The old
man stared at me while I spoke; he appeared to be in a kind of stupor,
and made no reply: and at last, leaving him still sitting on the ground,
I went into the wood to look for Rima.

As I walked there, occasionally stopping to peer into some shadowy glade
or opening, and to listen, I was tempted again and again to call the
name of her I sought aloud; and still the fear that by so doing I might
bring some hidden danger on myself, perhaps on her, made me silent. A
strange melancholy rested on the forest, a quietude seldom broken by a
distant bird's cry. How, I asked myself, should I ever find her in that
wide forest while I moved about in that silent, cautious way? My only
hope was that she would find me. It occurred to me that the most likely
place to seek her would be some of the old haunts known to us both,
where we had talked together. I thought first of the mora tree, where
she had hidden herself from me, and thither I directed my steps. About
this tree, and within its shade, I lingered for upwards of an hour; and,
finally, casting my eyes up into the great dim cloud of green and purple
leaves, I softly called: "Rima, Rima, if you have seen me, and have
concealed yourself from me in your hiding-place, in mercy answer me--in
mercy come down to me now!" But Rima answered not, nor threw down
any red glowing leaves to mock me: only the wind, high up, whispered
something low and sorrowful in the foliage; and turning, I wandered away
at random into the deeper shadows.

By and by I was startled by the long, piercing cry of a wildfowl,
sounding strangely loud in the silence; and no sooner was the air still
again than it struck me that no bird had uttered that cry. The Indian
is a good mimic of animal voices, but practice had made me able to
distinguish the true from the false bird-note. For a minute or so I
stood still, at a loss what to do, then moved on again with greater
caution, scarcely breathing, straining my sight to pierce the shadowy
depths. All at once I gave a great start, for directly before me, on the
projecting root in the deeper shade of a tree, sat a dark, motionless
human form. I stood still, watching it for some time, not yet knowing
that it had seen me, when all doubts were put to flight by the form
rising and deliberately advancing--a naked Indian with a zabatana in
his hand. As he came up out of the deeper shade I recognized Piake, the
surly elder brother of my friend Kua-ko.

It was a great shock to meet him in the wood, but I had no time to
reflect just then. I only remembered that I had deeply offended him and
his people, that they probably looked on me as an enemy, and would
think little of taking my life. It was too late to attempt to escape by
flight; I was spent with my long journey and the many privations I had
suffered, while he stood there in his full strength with a deadly weapon
in his hand.

Nothing was left but to put a bold face on, greet him in a friendly way,
and invent some plausible story to account for my action in secretly
leaving the village.

He was now standing still, silently regarding me, and glancing round
I saw that he was not alone: at a distance of about forty yards on my
right hand two other dusky forms appeared watching me from the deep
shade.

"Piake!" I cried, advancing three or four steps.

"You have returned," he answered, but without moving. "Where from?"

"Riolama."

He shook his head, then asked where it was.

"Twenty days towards the setting sun," I said. As he remained silent I
added: "I heard that I could find gold in the mountains there. An old
man told me, and we went to look for gold."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing."

"Ah!"

And so our conversation appeared to be at an end. But after a few
moments my intense desire to discover whether the savages knew aught of
Rima or not made me hazard a question.

"Do you live here in the forest now?" I asked.

He shook his head, and after a while said: "We come to kill animals."

"You are like me now," I returned quickly; "you fear nothing."

He looked distrustfully at me, then came a little nearer and said: "You
are very brave. I should not have gone twenty days' journey with no
weapons and only an old man for companion. What weapons did you have?"

I saw that he feared me and wished to make sure that I had it not in
my power to do him some injury. "No weapon except my knife," I replied,
with assumed carelessness. With that I raised my cloak so as to let him
see for himself, turning my body round before him. "Have you found my
pistol?" I added.

He shook his head; but he appeared less suspicious now and came close up
to me. "How do you get food? Where are you going?" he asked.

I answered boldly: "Food! I am nearly starving. I am going to the
village to see if the women have got any meat in the pot, and to tell
Runi all I have done since I left him."

He looked at me keenly, a little surprised at my confidence perhaps,
then said that he was also going back and would accompany me One of the
other men now advanced, blow-pipe in hand, to join us, and, leaving the
wood, we started to walk across the savannah.

It was hateful to have to recross that savannah again, to leave the
woodland shadows where I had hoped to find Rima; but I was powerless:
I was a prisoner once more, the lost captive recovered and not yet
pardoned, probably never to be pardoned. Only by means of my own cunning
could I be saved, and Nuflo, poor old man, must take his chance.

Again and again as we tramped over the barren ground, and when we
climbed the ridge, I was compelled to stand still to recover breath,
explaining to Piake that I had been travelling day and night, with no
meat during the last three days, so that I was exhausted. This was
an exaggeration, but it was necessary to account in some way for the
faintness I experienced during our walk, caused less by fatigue and want
of food than by anguish of mind.

At intervals I talked to him, asking after all the other members of the
community by name. At last, thinking only of Rima, I asked him if any
other person or persons besides his people came to the wood now or lived
there.

He said no. "Once," I said, "there was a daughter of the Didi, a girl
you all feared: is she there now?"

He looked at me with suspicion and then shook his head. I dared not
press him with more questions; but after an interval he said plainly:
"She is not there now."

And I was forced to believe him; for had Rima been in the wood
they would not have been there. She was not there, this much I had
discovered. Had she, then, lost her way, or perished on that long
journey from Riolama? Or had she returned only to fall into the hands
of her cruel enemies? My heart was heavy in me; but if these devils in
human shape knew more than they had told me, I must, I said, hide my
anxiety and wait patiently to find it out, should they spare my
life. And if they spared me and had not spared that other sacred life
interwoven with mine, the time would come when they would find, too
late, that they had taken to their bosom a worse devil than themselves.

My arrival at the village created some excitement; but I was plainly no
longer regarded as a friend or one of the family. Runi was absent, and
I looked forward to his return with no little apprehension; he would
doubtless decide my fate. Kua-ko was also away. The others sat or stood
about the great room, staring at me in silence. I took no notice, but
merely asked for food, then for my hammock, which I hung up in the old
place, and lying down I fell into a doze. Runi made his appearance at
dusk. I rose and greeted him, but he spoke no word and, until he went to
his hammock, sat in sullen silence, ignoring my presence.

On the following day the crisis came. We were once more gathered in the
room--all but Kua-ko and another of the men, who had not yet returned
from some expedition--and for the space of half an hour not a word
was spoken by anyone. Something was expected; even the children were
strangely still, and whenever one of the pet birds strayed in at the
open door, uttering a little plaintive note, it was chased out again,
but without a sound. At length Runi straightened himself on his seat and
fixed his eyes on me; then cleared his throat and began a long harangue,
delivered in the loud, monotonous singsong which I knew so well and
which meant that the occasion was an important one. And as is usual
in such efforts, the same thought and expressions were used again and
again, and yet again, with dull, angry insistence. The orator of Guayana
to be impressive must be long, however little he may have to say.
Strange as it may seem, I listened critically to him, not without a
feeling of scorn at his lower intelligence. But I was easier in my mind
now. From the very fact of his addressing such a speech to me I was
convinced that he wished not to take my life, and would not do so if I
could clear myself of the suspicion of treachery.

I was a white man, he said, they were Indians; nevertheless they had
treated me well. They had fed me and sheltered me. They had done a
great deal for me: they had taught me the use of the zabatana, and had
promised to make one for me, asking for nothing in return. They had also
promised me a wife. How had I treated them? I had deserted them, going
away secretly to a distance, leaving them in doubt as to my intentions.
How could they tell why I had gone, and where? They had an enemy. Managa
was his name; he and his people hated them; I knew that he wished them
evil; I knew where to find him, for they had told me. That was what they
thought when I suddenly left them. Now I returned to them, saying that
I had been to Riolama. He knew where Riolama was, although he had never
been there: it was so far. Why did I go to Riolama? It was a bad place.
There were Indians there, a few; but they were not good Indians like
those of Parahuari, and would kill a white man. HAD I gone there? Why
had I gone there?

He finished at last, and it was my turn to speak, but he had given me
plenty of time, and my reply was ready. "I have heard you," I said.
"Your words are good words. They are the words of a friend. 'I am the
white man's friend,' you say; 'is he my friend? He went away secretly,
saying no word; why did he go without speaking to his friend who had
treated him well? Has he been to my enemy Managa? Perhaps he is a friend
of my enemy? Where has he been?' I must now answer these things, saying
true words to my friend. You are an Indian, I am a white man. You do not
know all the white man's thoughts. These are the things I wish to tell
you. In the white man's country are two kinds of men. There are the rich
men, who have all that a man can desire--houses made of stone, full of
fine things, fine clothes, fine weapons, fine ornaments; and they have
horses, cattle, sheep, dogs--everything they desire. Because they have
gold, for with gold the white man buys everything. The other kind
of white men are the poor, who have no gold and cannot buy or have
anything: they must work hard for the rich man for the little food he
gives them, and a rag to cover their nakedness; and if he gives them
shelter they have it; if not they must lie down in the rain out of
doors. In my own country, a hundred days from here, I was the son of a
great chief, who had much gold, and when he died it was all mine, and I
was rich. But I had an enemy, one worse than Managa, for he was rich and
had many people. And in a war his people overcame mine, and he took my
gold, and all I possessed, making me poor. The Indian kills his enemy,
but the white man takes his gold, and that is worse than death. Then I
said: 'I have been a rich man and now I am poor, and must work like a
dog for some rich man, for the sake of the little food he will throw me
at the end of each day. No, I cannot do it! I will go away and live with
the Indians, so that those who have seen me a rich man shall never see
me working like a dog for a master, and cry out and mock at me. For the
Indians are not like white men: they have no gold; they are not rich
and poor; all are alike. One roof covers them from the rain and sun.
All have weapons which they make; all kill birds in the forest and catch
fish in the rivers; and the women cook the meat and all eat from one
pot. And with the Indians I will be an Indian, and hunt in the forest
and eat with them and drink with them.' Then I left my country and came
here, and lived with you, Runi, and was well treated. And now, why did
I go away? This I have now to tell you. After I had been here a certain
time I went over there to the forest. You wished me not to go, because
of an evil thing, a daughter of the Didi, that lived there; but I feared
nothing and went. There I met an old man, who talked to me in the white
man's language. He had travelled and seen much, and told me one strange
thing. On a mountain at Riolama he told me that he had seen a great lump
of gold, as much as a man could carry. And when I heard this I said:
'With the gold I could return to my country, and buy weapons for myself
and all my people and go to war with my enemy and deprive him of all his
possessions and serve him as he served me.' I asked the old man to take
me to Riolama; and when he had consented I went away from here without
saying a word, so as not to be prevented. It is far to Riolama, and I
had no weapons; but I feared nothing. I said: 'If I must fight I must
fight, and if I must be killed I must be killed.' But when I got to
Riolama I found no gold. There was only a yellow stone which the old
man had mistaken for gold. It was yellow, like gold, but it would buy
nothing. Therefore I came back to Parahuari again, to my friend; and if
he is angry with me still because I went away without informing him, let
him say: 'Go and seek elsewhere for a new friend, for I am your friend
no longer.'"

I concluded thus boldly because I did not wish him to know that I had
suspected him of harbouring any sinister designs, or that I looked
on our quarrel as a very serious one. When I had finished speaking he
emitted a sound which expressed neither approval nor disapproval, but
only the fact that he had heard me. But I was satisfied. His expression
had undergone a favourable change; it was less grim. After a while
he remarked, with a peculiar twitching of the mouth which might have
developed into a smile: "The white man will do much to get gold. You
walked twenty days to see a yellow stone that would buy nothing." It was
fortunate that he took this view of the case, which was flattering to
his Indian nature, and perhaps touched his sense of the ludicrous. At
all events, he said nothing to discredit my story, to which they had all
listened with profound interest.

From that time it seemed to be tacitly agreed to let bygones be bygones;
and I could see that as the dangerous feeling that had threatened my
life diminished, the old pleasure they had once found in my company
returned. But my feelings towards them did not change, nor could they
while that black and terrible suspicion concerning Rima was in my heart.
I talked again freely with them, as if there had been no break in the
old friendly relations. If they watched me furtively whenever I went
out of doors, I affected not to see it. I set to work to repair my rude
guitar, which had been broken in my absence, and studied to show them
a cheerful countenance. But when alone, or in my hammock, hidden from
their eyes, free to look into my own heart, then I was conscious that
something new and strange had come into my life; that a new nature,
black and implacable, had taken the place of the old. And sometimes
it was hard to conceal this fury that burnt in me; sometimes I felt an
impulse to spring like a tiger on one of the Indians, to hold him fast
by the throat until the secret I wished to learn was forced from his
lips, then to dash his brains out against the stone. But they were many,
and there was no choice but to be cautious and patient if I wished to
outwit them with a cunning superior to their own.

Three days after my arrival at the village, Kua-ko returned with his
companion. I greeted him with affected warmth, but was really pleased
that he was back, believing that if the Indians knew anything of Rima he
among them all would be most likely to tell it.

Kua-ko appeared to have brought some important news, which he discussed
with Runi and the others; and on the following day I noticed that
preparations for an expedition were in progress. Spears and bows and
arrows were got ready, but not blow-pipes, and I knew by this that the
expedition would not be a hunting one. Having discovered so much, also
that only four men were going out, I called Kua-ko aside and begged him
to let me go with them. He seemed pleased at the proposal, and at once
repeated it to Runi, who considered for a little and then consented.

By and by he said, touching his bow: "You cannot fight with our weapons;
what will you do if we meet an enemy?"

I smiled and returned that I would not run away. All I wished to show
him was that his enemies were my enemies, that I was ready to fight for
my friend.

He was pleased at my words, and said no more and gave me no weapons.
Next morning, however, when we set out before daylight, I made the
discovery that he was carrying my revolver fastened to his waist. He
had concealed it carefully under the one simple garment he wore, but it
bulged slightly, and so the secret was betrayed. I had never believed
that he had lost it, and I was convinced that he took it now with the
object of putting it into my hands at the last moment in case of meeting
with an enemy.

From the village we travelled in a north-westerly direction, and before
noon camped in a grove of dwarf trees, where we remained until the sun
was low, then continued our walk through a rather barren country. At
night we camped again beside a small stream, only a few inches deep,
and after a meal of smoked meat and parched maize prepared to sleep till
dawn on the next day.

Sitting by the fire I resolved to make a first attempt to discover from
Kua-ko anything concerning Rima which might be known to him. Instead
of lying down when the others did, I remained seated, my guardian also
sitting--no doubt waiting for me to lie down first. Presently I moved
nearer to him and began a conversation in a low voice, anxious not to
rouse the attention of the other men.

"Once you said that Oalava would be given to me for a wife," I began.
"Some day I shall want a wife."

He nodded approval, and remarked sententiously that the desire to
possess a wife was common to all men.

"What has been left to me?" I said despondingly and spreading out my
hands. "My pistol gone, and did I not give Runi the tinder-box, and the
little box with a cock painted on it to you? I had no return--not even
the blow-pipe. How, then, can I get me a wife?"

He, like the others--dull-witted savage that he was--had come to the
belief that I was incapable of the cunning and duplicity they practiced.
I could not see a green parrot sitting silent and motionless amidst the
green foliage as they could; I had not their preternatural keenness of
sight; and, in like manner, to deceive with lies and false seeming was
their faculty and not mine. He fell readily into the trap. My return to
practical subjects pleased him. He bade me hope that Oalava might yet be
mine in spite of my poverty. It was not always necessary to have things
to get a wife: to be able to maintain her was enough; some day I would
be like one of themselves, able to kill animals and catch fish. Besides,
did not Runi wish to keep me with them for other reasons? But he could
not keep me wifeless. I could do much: I could sing and make music; I
was brave and feared nothing; I could teach the children to fight.

He did not say, however, that I could teach anything to one of his years
and attainments.

I protested that he gave me too much praise, that they were just as
brave. Did they not show a courage equal to mine by going every day to
hunt in that wood which was inhabited by the daughter of the Didi?

I came to this subject with fear and trembling, but he took it quietly.
He shook his head, and then all at once began to tell me how they first
came to go there to hunt. He said that a few days after I had secretly
disappeared, two men and a woman, returning home from a distant place
where they had been on a visit to a relation, stopped at the village.
These travellers related that two days' journey from Ytaioa they had
met three persons travelling in an opposite direction: an old man with
a white beard, followed by two yellow dogs, a young man in a big cloak,
and a strange-looking girl. Thus it came to be known that I had left the
wood with the old man and the daughter of the Didi. It was great news to
them, for they did not believe that we had any intention of returning,
and at once they began to hunt in the wood, and went there every day,
killing birds, monkeys, and other animals in numbers.

His words had begun to excite me greatly, but I studied to appear calm
and only slightly interested, so as to draw him on to say more.

"Then we returned," I said at last. "But only two of us, and not
together. I left the old man on the road, and SHE left us in Riolama.
She went away from us into the mountains--who knows whither!"

"But she came back!" he returned, with a gleam of devilish satisfaction
in his eyes that made the blood run cold in my veins.

It was hard to dissemble still, to tempt him to say something that
would madden me! "No, no," I answered, after considering his words. "She
feared to return; she went away to hide herself in the great mountains
beyond Riolama. She could not come back."

"But she came back!" he persisted, with that triumphant gleam in his
eyes once more. Under my cloak my hand had clutched my knife-handle, but
I strove hard against the fierce, almost maddening impulse to pluck it
out and bury it, quick as lightning, in his accursed throat.

He continued: "Seven days before you returned we saw her in the wood. We
were always expecting, watching, always afraid; and when hunting we were
three and four together. On that day I and three others saw her. It was
in an open place, where the trees are big and wide apart. We started
up and chased her when she ran from us, but feared to shoot. And in one
moment she climbed up into a small tree, then, like a monkey, passed
from its highest branches into a big tree. We could not see her there,
but she was there in the big tree, for there was no other tree near--no
way of escape. Three of us sat down to watch, and the other went back
to the village. He was long gone; we were just going to leave the tree,
fearing that she would do us some injury, when he came back, and with
him all the others, men, women, and children. They brought axes and
knives. Then Runi said: 'Let no one shoot an arrow into the tree
thinking to hit her, for the arrow would be caught in her hand and
thrown back at him. We must burn her in the tree; there is no way to
kill her except by fire.' Then we went round and round looking up, but
could see nothing; and someone said: 'She has escaped, flying like a
bird from the tree'; but Runi answered that fire would show. So we cut
down the small tree and lopped the branches off and heaped them round
the big trunk. Then, at a distance, we cut down ten more small trees,
and afterwards, further away, ten more, and then others, and piled them
all round, tree after tree, until the pile reached as far from the trunk
as that," and here he pointed to a bush forty to fifty yards from where
we sat.

The feeling with which I had listened to this recital had become
intolerable. The sweat ran from me in streams; I shivered like a person
in a fit of ague, and clenched my teeth together to prevent them from
rattling. "I must drink," I said, cutting him short and rising to my
feet. He also rose, but did not follow me, when, with uncertain steps, I
made my way to the waterside, which was ten or twelve yards away. Lying
prostrate on my chest, I took a long draught of clear cold water, and
held my face for a few moments in the current. It sent a chill through
me, drying my wet skin, and bracing me for the concluding part of the
hideous narrative. Slowly I stepped back to the fireside and sat down
again, while he resumed his old place at my side.

"You burnt the tree down," I said. "Finish telling me now and let me
sleep--my eyes are heavy."

"Yes. While the men cut and brought trees, the women and children
gathered dry stuff in the forest and brought it in their arms and piled
it round. Then they set fire to it on all sides, laughing and shouting:
'Burn, burn, daughter of the Didi!' At length all the lower branches of
the big tree were on fire, and the trunk was on fire, but above it was
still green, and we could see nothing. But the flames went up higher and
higher with a great noise; and at last from the top of the tree, out
of the green leaves, came a great cry, like the cry of a bird: 'Abel!
Abel!' and then looking we saw something fall; through leaves and smoke
and flame it fell like a great white bird killed with an arrow and
falling to the earth, and fell into the flames beneath. And it was the
daughter of the Didi, and she was burnt to ashes like a moth in the
flames of a fire, and no one has ever heard or seen her since."

It was well for me that he spoke rapidly, and finished quickly.
Even before he had quite concluded I drew my cloak round my face and
stretched myself out. And I suppose that he at once followed my example,
but I had grown blind and deaf to outward things just then. My heart no
longer throbbed violently; it fluttered and seemed to grow feebler and
feebler in its action: I remember that there was a dull, rushing sound
in my ears, that I gasped for breath, that my life seemed ebbing away.
After these horrible sensations had passed, I remained quiet for about
half an hour; and during this time the picture of that last act in the
hateful tragedy grew more and more distinct and vivid in my mind, until
I seemed to be actually gazing on it, until my ears were filled with the
hissing and crackling of the fire, the exultant shouts of the savages,
and above all the last piercing cry of "Abel! Abel!" from the cloud of
burning foliage. I could not endure it longer, and rose at last to my
feet. I glanced at Kua-ko lying two or three yards away, and he, like
the others, was, or appeared to be, in a deep sleep; he was lying on
his back, and his dark firelit face looked as still and unconscious as
a face of stone. Now was my chance to escape--if to escape was my wish.
Yes; for I now possessed the coveted knowledge, and nothing more was to
be gained by keeping with my deadly enemies. And now, most fortunately
for me, they had brought me far on the road to that place of the five
hills where Managa lived--Managa, whose name had been often in my
mind since my return to Parahuari. Glancing away from Kua-ko's still
stone-like face. I caught sight of that pale solitary star which Runi
had pointed out to me low down in the north-western sky when I had asked
him where his enemy lived. In that direction we had been travelling
since leaving the village; surely if I walked all night, by tomorrow I
could reach Managa's hunting-ground, and be safe and think over what I
had heard and on what I had to do.

I moved softly away a few steps, then thinking that it would be well to
take a spear in my hand, I turned back, and was surprised and startled
to notice that Kua-ko had moved in the interval. He had turned over on
his side, and his face was now towards me. His eyes appeared closed, but
he might be only feigning sleep, and I dared not go back to pick up the
spear. After a moment's hesitation I moved on again, and after a second
glance back and seeing that he did not stir, I waded cautiously across
the stream, walked softly twenty or thirty yards, and then began to run.
At intervals I paused to listen for a moment; and presently I heard a
pattering sound as of footsteps coming swiftly after me. I instantly
concluded that Kua-ko had been awake all the time watching my movements,
and that he was now following me. I now put forth my whole speed, and
while thus running could distinguish no sound. That he would miss me,
for it was very dark, although with a starry sky above, was my only
hope; for with no weapon except my knife my chances would be small
indeed should he overtake me. Besides, he had no doubt roused the others
before starting, and they would be close behind. There were no bushes
in that place to hide myself in and let them pass me; and presently, to
make matters worse, the character of the soil changed, and I was running
over level clayey ground, so white with a salt efflorescence that a
dark object moving on it would show conspicuously at a distance. Here
I paused to look back and listen, when distinctly came the sound of
footsteps, and the next moment I made out the vague form of an Indian
advancing at a rapid rate of speed and with his uplifted spear in his
hand. In the brief pause I had made he had advanced almost to within
hurling distance of me, and turning, I sped on again, throwing off my
cloak to ease my flight. The next time I looked back he was still in
sight, but not so near; he had stopped to pick up my cloak, which would
be his now, and this had given me a slight advantage. I fled on, and had
continued running for a distance perhaps of fifty yards when an object
rushed past me, tearing through the flesh of my left arm close to the
shoulder on its way; and not knowing that I was not badly wounded nor
how near my pursuer might be, I turned in desperation to meet him,
and saw him not above twenty-five yards away, running towards me with
something bright in his hand. It was Kua-ko, and after wounding me with
his spear he was about to finish me with his knife. O fortunate young
savage, after such a victory, and with that noble blue cloth cloak for
trophy and covering, what fame and happiness will be yours! A change
swift as lightning had come over me, a sudden exultation. I was wounded,
but my right hand was sound and clutched a knife as good as his, and
we were on an equality. I waited for him calmly. All weakness, grief,
despair had vanished, all feelings except a terrible raging desire to
spill his accursed blood; and my brain was clear and my nerves like
steel, and I remembered with something like laughter our old amusing
encounters with rapiers of wood. Ah, that was only making believe and
childish play; this was reality. Could any white man, deprived of his
treacherous, far-killing weapon, meet the resolute savage, face to face
and foot to foot, and equal him with the old primitive weapons? Poor
youth, this delusion will cost you dear! It was scarcely an equal
contest when he hurled himself against me, with only his savage strength
and courage to match my skill; in a few moments he was lying at my
feet, pouring out his life blood on that white thirsty plain. From his
prostrate form I turned, the wet, red knife in my hand, to meet the
others, still thinking that they were on the track and close at hand.
Why had he stooped to pick up the cloak if they were not following--if
he had not been afraid of losing it? I turned only to receive their
spears, to die with my face to them; nor was the thought of death
terrible to me; I could die calmly now after killing my first assailant.
But had I indeed killed him? I asked, hearing a sound like a groan
escape from his lips. Quickly stooping, I once more drove my weapon to
the hilt in his prostrate form, and when he exhaled a deep sigh, and his
frame quivered, and the blood spurted afresh, I experienced a feeling
of savage joy. And still no sound of hurrying footsteps came to my
listening ears and no vague forms appeared in the darkness. I concluded
that he had either left them sleeping or that they had not followed in
the right direction. Taking up the cloak, I was about to walk on, when
I noticed the spear he had thrown at me lying where it had fallen some
yards away, and picking that up also, I went on once more, still keeping
the guiding star before me.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Unlike Abel, Nuflo is not worried about Rima's return alone to the woodland because he has great confidence in her ability to survive in the jungle. Exhausted physically by the trip to Riolama and reassured by Nuflo, Abel rests for two days, but he then presses Nuflo to start back despite the latter's desire to relax longer here. The journey homeward requires twenty-three days because the weather is worse than the previous heavy period of rain. Food is short, and both men are already fatigued from the first trek. When they at last come to Nuflo's hut, the two men are very upset because the house has been burned to the ground. Nuflo, sure that Runi's people have committed this destruction, is fearful of the future; Abel, on the other hand, is concerned only about Rima. He enters the "green mansions" but senses that "a strange melancholy rested on the forest." Abel goes to familiar places such as the mora tree and soon, in desperation, softly calls for Rima. False notes of birds alert him to the presence of Indians, and he is startled to see Piake, the brother of Kua-ko, who takes him back as a prisoner to the village. Abel is very certain that something has happened to Rima because the Parahuaris have never dared to penetrate the forest due to their fear of her. Abel's inquiries, cautious and shrewd, produce no information about Rima except Piake's statement that the evil spirit is no longer in the woodland. Abel decides to try an escape after he has uncovered the facts about Rima's fate. Nuflo, consequently, will have to remain alone and take his chances against the marauding savages. He already vows vengeance against the Parahuaris if Rima has perished because of them. Abel's arrival in the village excites all the Indians, but they no longer look upon him as a friend. When Runi comes home, a trial takes place, and the chief bitterly accuses Abel of betraying the Indians who have sheltered him. Runi is especially afraid that Abel has visited the neighboring Managa and his tribe, who are enemies of the Parahuaris. These foes could use any information which Abel might give them to destroy Runi's people. Abel's defense is a mixture of truth and omission, and he carefully leaves out Rima's name in his arguments. He explains that he met an old man who claimed that there was gold at Riolama. Since he had lost all his fortune in a war, the only way to recoup his position in the civilized world is by gold. However, no gold was located at Riolama, so he returned trustingly to his friends, the Parahuaris. Abel asserts boldly that he will go elsewhere to look for better friends if the Indians do not believe him. Although Runi is not firmly convinced by Abel's speech, he is at least persuaded to allow the young man to remain without being harmed. The tribe slowly seems to forget the incident, but Abel only increases his bitterness and hatred toward the savages. Three days later, Kua-ko enters the encampment with important news which the Indians discuss in secret; Abel guesses from their preparations that a war party is in the making. He offers to accompany them and notices that Runi, with a bulge at his waist, is hiding the revolver. Abel hopes that the weapon will be returned to him during the expedition. When the war party camps at night, Abel determines to question Kua-ko about Rima. He traps the Indian by praising the courage the tribe shows in being willing to hunt in the woodland. Kua-ko narrates the whole story: The travelers met by Abel and the others on the way to Riolama reported the fact to Runi; thus the Parahuaris knew that the forest was safe for them to use for hunting. Admitting that Rima accompanied him to Riolama, Abel lies about her return by saying that she was frightened and stayed there. Kua-ko gleefully gives the response that Abel has been wanting when he brags that Rima did come back. The Indians saw Rima in the woodland and trapped her in a tree. They were, however, afraid to shoot arrows at her because of the past incident when she supposedly threw back an arrow at them. Fire was the only solution, so the whole tribe prepared a large fire around the tree. As the flames reached the top of the tree, Rima cried out like a bird, "Abel! Abel!" then plunged into the fire. Abel can barely restrain himself from killing Kua-ko because of his emotional anguish at the confirmation of Rima's horrible death. Pretending to go to sleep, Abel later escapes from the war party and heads for Managa's camp so that he can warn him about the planned attack. For further vengeance, Abel wants Managa to destroy all the Parahuaris. But Kua-ko is suspicious of Abel and stalks him on the trail. Abel, with only a knife for a weapon, is wounded by a spear thrown by Kua-ko, but he ferociously turns on the Indian and kills him. Although Abel fears that the other savages have also pursued him, he happily realizes that he is mistaken. He heads for Managa's village.