prompt:
Chapter: With the return of consciousness, I at first had a vague impression that
I was lying somewhere, injured, and incapable of motion; that it was
night, and necessary for me to keep my eyes fast shut to prevent them
from being blinded by almost continuous vivid flashes of lightning.
Injured, and sore all over, but warm and dry--surely dry; nor was it
lightning that dazzled, but firelight. I began to notice things little
by little. The fire was burning on a clay floor a few feet from where I
was lying. Before it, on a log of wood, sat or crouched a human figure.
An old man, with chin on breast and hands clasped before his drawn-up
knees; only a small portion of his forehead and nose visible to me. An
Indian I took him to be, from his coarse, lank, grey hair and dark brown
skin. I was in a large hut, falling at the sides to within two feet of
the floor; but there were no hammocks in it, nor bows and spears, and
no skins, not even under me, for I was lying on straw mats. I could hear
the storm still raging outside; the rush and splash of rain, and, at
intervals, the distant growl of thunder. There was wind, too; I listened
to it sobbing in the trees, and occasionally a puff found its way in,
and blew up the white ashes at the old man's feet, and shook the yellow
flames like a flag. I remembered now how the storm began, the wild girl,
the snake-bite, my violent efforts to find a way out of the woods, and,
finally, that leap from the bank where recollection ended. That I had
not been killed by the venomous tooth, nor the subsequent fearful fall,
seemed like a miracle to me. And in that wild, solitary place, lying
insensible, in that awful storm and darkness, I had been found by a
fellow creature--a savage, doubtless, but a good Samaritan all the
same--who had rescued me from death! I was bruised all over and did not
attempt to move, fearing the pain it would give me; and I had a racking
headache; but these seemed trifling discomforts after such adventures
and such perils. I felt that I had recovered or was recovering from
that venomous bite; that I would live and not die--live to return to my
country; and the thought filled my heart to overflowing, and tears of
gratitude and happiness rose to my eyes.

At such times a man experiences benevolent feelings, and would willingly
bestow some of that overplus of happiness on his fellows to lighten
other hearts; and this old man before me, who was probably the
instrument of my salvation, began greatly to excite my interest and
compassion. For he seemed so poor in his old age and rags, so solitary
and dejected as he sat there with knees drawn up, his great, brown, bare
feet looking almost black by contrast with the white wood-ashes about
them! What could I do for him? What could I say to cheer his spirits
in that Indian language, which has few or no words to express kindly
feelings? Unable to think of anything better to say, I at length
suddenly cried aloud: "Smoke, old man! Why do you not smoke? It is good
to smoke."

He gave a mighty start and, turning, fixed his eyes on me. Then I saw
that he was not a pure Indian, for although as brown as old leather,
he wore a beard and moustache. A curious face had this old man, which
looked as if youth and age had made it a battling-ground. His forehead
was smooth except for two parallel lines in the middle running its
entire length, dividing it in zones; his arched eyebrows were black as
ink, and his small black eyes were bright and cunning, like the eyes of
some wild carnivorous animal. In this part of his face youth had held
its own, especially in the eyes, which looked young and lively.
But lower down age had conquered, scribbling his skin all over with
wrinkles, while moustache and beard were white as thistledown. "Aha, the
dead man is alive again!" he exclaimed, with a chuckling laugh. This
in the Indian tongue; then in Spanish he added: "But speak to me in the
language you know best, senor; for if you are not a Venezuelan call me
an owl."

"And you, old man?" said I.

"Ah, I was right! Why sir what I am is plainly written on my face.
Surely you do not take me for a pagan! I might be a black man from
Africa, or an Englishman, but an Indian--that, no! But a minute ago you
had the goodness to invite me to smoke. How, sir, can a poor man smoke
who is without tobacco?"

"Without tobacco--in Guayana!"

"Can you believe it? But, sir, do not blame me; if the beast that
came one night and destroyed my plants when ripe for cutting had taken
pumpkins and sweet potatoes instead, it would have been better for him,
if curses have any effect. And the plant grows slowly, sir--it is not an
evil weed to come to maturity in a single day. And as for other leaves
in the forest, I smoke them, yes; but there is no comfort to the lungs
in such smoke."

"My tobacco-pouch was full," I said. "You will find it in my coat, if I
did not lose it."

"The saints forbid!" he exclaimed. "Grandchild--Rima, have you got a
tobacco-pouch with the other things? Give it to me."

Then I first noticed that another person was in the hut, a slim young
girl, who had been seated against the wall on the other side of the
fire, partially hid by the shadows. She had my leather belt, with
the revolver in its case, and my hunting-knife attached, and the few
articles I had had in my pockets, on her lap. Taking up the pouch, she
handed it to him, and he clutched it with a strange eagerness.

"I will give it back presently, Rima," he said. "Let me first smoke a
cigarette--and then another."

It seemed probable from this that the good old man had already been
casting covetous eyes on my property, and that his granddaughter had
taken care of it for me. But how the silent, demure girl had kept it
from him was a puzzle, so intensely did he seem now to enjoy it, drawing
the smoke vigorously into his lungs and, after keeping it ten or fifteen
seconds there, letting it fly out again from mouth and nose in blue jets
and clouds. His face softened visibly, he became more and more genial
and loquacious, and asked me how I came to be in that solitary place. I
told him that I was staying with the Indian Runi, his neighbour.

"But, senor," he said, "if it is not an impertinence, how is it that a
young man of so distinguished an appearance as yourself, a Venezuelan,
should be residing with these children of the devil?"

"You love not your neighbours, then?"

"I know them, sir--how should I love them?" He was rolling up his second
or third cigarette by this time, and I could not help noticing that he
took a great deal more tobacco than he required in his fingers, and
that the surplus on each occasion was conveyed to some secret receptacle
among his rags. "Love them, sir! They are infidels, and therefore the
good Christian must only hate them. They are thieves--they will steal
from you before your very face, so devoid are they of all shame. And
also murderers; gladly would they burn this poor thatch above my head,
and kill me and my poor grandchild, who shares this solitary life with
me, if they had the courage. But they are all arrant cowards, and fear
to approach me--fear even to come into this wood. You would laugh to
hear what they are afraid of--a child would laugh to hear it!"

"What do they fear?" I said, for his words had excited my interest in a
great degree.

"Why, sir, would you believe it? They fear this child--my granddaughter,
seated there before you. A poor innocent girl of seventeen summers, a
Christian who knows her Catechism, and would not harm the smallest thing
that God has made--no, not a fly, which is not regarded on account of
its smallness. Why, sir, it is due to her tender heart that you are
safely sheltered here, instead of being left out of doors in this
tempestuous night."

"To her--to this girl?" I returned in astonishment. "Explain, old man,
for I do not know how I was saved."

"Today, senor, through your own heedlessness you were bitten by a
venomous snake."

"Yes, that is true, although I do not know how it came to your
knowledge. But why am I not a dead man, then--have you done something to
save me from the effects of the poison?"

"Nothing. What could I do so long after you were bitten? When a man is
bitten by a snake in a solitary place he is in God's hands. He will live
or die as God wills. There is nothing to be done. But surely, sir, you
remember that my poor grandchild was with you in the wood when the snake
bit you?"

"A girl was there--a strange girl I have seen and heard before when I
have walked in the forest. But not this girl--surely not this girl!"

"No other," said he, carefully rolling up another cigarette.

"It is not possible!" I returned.

"Ill would you have fared, sir, had she not been there. For after being
bitten, you rushed away into the thickest part of the wood, and went
about in a circle like a demented person for Heaven knows how long. But
she never left you; she was always close to you--you might have touched
her with your hand. And at last some good angel who was watching you,
in order to stop your career, made you mad altogether and caused you to
jump over a precipice and lose your senses. And you were no sooner on
the ground than she was with you--ask me not how she got down! And when
she had propped you up against the bank, she came for me. Fortunately
the spot where you had fallen is near--not five hundred yards from the
door. And I, on my part, was willing to assist her in saving you; for I
knew it was no Indian that had fallen, since she loves not that breed,
and they come not here. It was not an easy task, for you weigh, senor;
but between us we brought you in."

While he spoke, the girl continued sitting in the same listless attitude
as when I first observed her, with eyes cast down and hands folded in
her lap. Recalling that brilliant being in the wood that had protected
the serpent from me and calmed its rage, I found it hard to believe his
words, and still felt a little incredulous.

"Rima--that is your name, is it not?" I said. "Will you come here and
stand before me, and let me look closely at you?"

"Si, senor." she meekly answered; and removing the things from her lap,
she stood up; then, passing behind the old man, came and stood before
me, her eyes still bent on the ground--a picture of humility.

She had the figure of the forest girl, but wore now a scanty faded
cotton garment, while the loose cloud of hair was confined in two plaits
and hung down her back. The face also showed the same delicate lines,
but of the brilliant animation and variable colour and expression there
appeared no trace. Gazing at her countenance as she stood there silent,
shy, and spiritless before me, the image of her brighter self came
vividly to my mind and I could not recover from the astonishment I felt
at such a contrast.

Have you ever observed a humming-bird moving about in an aerial dance
among the flowers--a living prismatic gem that changes its colour with
every change of position--how in turning it catches the sunshine on its
burnished neck and gorges plumes--green and gold and flame-coloured, the
beams changing to visible flakes as they fall, dissolving into nothing,
to be succeeded by others and yet others? In its exquisite form,
its changeful splendour, its swift motions and intervals of aerial
suspension, it is a creature of such fairy-like loveliness as to
mock all description. And have you seen this same fairy-like creature
suddenly perch itself on a twig, in the shade, its misty wings and
fan-like tail folded, the iridescent glory vanished, looking like some
common dull-plumaged little bird sitting listless in a cage? Just so
great was the difference in the girl as I had seen her in the forest and
as she now appeared under the smoky roof in the firelight.

After watching her for some moments, I spoke: "Rima, there must be a
good deal of strength in that frame of yours, which looks so delicate;
will you raise me up a little?"

She went down on one knee and, placing her arms round me, assisted me to
a sitting posture.

"Thank you, Rima--oh, misery!" I groaned. "Is there a bone left unbroken
in my poor body?"

"Nothing broken," cried the old man, clouds of smoke flying out with his
words. "I have examined you well--legs, arms, ribs. For this is how
it was, senor. A thorny bush into which you fell saved you from being
flattened on the stony ground. But you are bruised, sir, black with
bruises; and there are more scratches of thorns on your skin than
letters on a written page."

"A long thorn might have entered my brain," I said, "from the way it
pains. Feel my forehead, Rima; is it very hot and dry?"

She did as I asked, touching me lightly with her little cool hand. "No,
senor, not hot, but warm and moist," she said.

"Thank Heaven for that!" I said. "Poor girl! And you followed me through
the wood in all that terrible storm! Ah, if I could lift my bruised arm
I would take your hand to kiss it in gratitude for so great a service. I
owe you my life, sweet Rima--what shall I do to repay so great a debt?"

The old man chuckled as if amused, but the girl lifted not her eyes nor
spoke.

"Tell me, sweet child," I said, "for I cannot realize it yet; was
it really you that saved the serpent's life when I would have killed
it--did you stand by me in the wood with the serpent lying at your
feet?"

"Yes, senor," came her gentle answer.

"And it was you I saw in the wood one day, lying on the ground playing
with a small bird?"

"Yes, senor."

"And it was you that followed me so often among the trees, calling to
me, yet always hiding so that I could never see you?"

"Yes, senor."

"Oh, this is wonderful!" I exclaimed; whereat the old man chuckled
again.

"But tell me this, my sweet girl," I continued. "You never addressed me
in Spanish; what strange musical language was it you spoke to me in?"

She shot a timid glance at my face and looked troubled at the question,
but made no reply.

"Senor," said the old man, "that is a question which you must excuse my
child from answering. Not, sir, from want of will, for she is docile and
obedient, though I say it, but there is no answer beyond what I can tell
you. And this is, sir, that all creatures, whether man or bird, have the
voice that God has given them; and in some the voice is musical and in
others not so."

"Very well, old man," said I to myself; "there let the matter rest for
the present. But if I am destined to live and not die, I shall not long
remain satisfied with your too simple explanation."

"Rima," I said, "you must be fatigued; it is thoughtless of me to keep
you standing here so long."

Her face brightened a little, and bending down, she replied in a low
voice: "I am not fatigued, sir. Let me get you something to eat now."

She moved quickly away to the fire, and presently returned with an
earthenware dish of roasted pumpkin and sweet potatoes and, kneeling at
my side, fed me deftly with a small wooden spoon. I did not feel grieved
at the absence of meat and the stinging condiments the Indians love, nor
did I even remark that there was no salt in the vegetables, so much
was I taken up with watching her beautiful delicate face while she
ministered to me. The exquisite fragrance of her breath was more to me
than the most delicious viands could have been; and it was a delight
each time she raised the spoon to my mouth to catch a momentary glimpse
of her eyes, which now looked dark as wine when we lift the glass to see
the ruby gleam of light within the purple. But she never for a moment
laid aside the silent, meek, constrained manner; and when I remembered
her bursting out in her brilliant wrath on me, pouring forth that
torrent of stinging invective in her mysterious language, I was lost
in wonder and admiration at the change in her, and at her double
personality. Having satisfied my wants, she moved quietly away
and, raising a straw mat, disappeared behind it into her own
sleeping-apartment, which was divided off by a partition from the room I
was in.

The old man's sleeping-place was a wooden cot or stand on the opposite
side of the room, but he was in no hurry to sleep, and after Rima had
left us, put a fresh log on the blaze and lit another cigarette. Heaven
knows how many he had smoked by this time. He became very talkative and
called to his side his two dogs, which I had not noticed in the room
before, for me to see. It amused me to hear their names--Susio and
Goloso: Dirty and Greedy. They were surly-looking brutes, with rough
yellow hair, and did not win my heart, but according to his account they
possessed all the usual canine virtues; and he was still holding forth
on the subject when I fell asleep.

When morning came I was too stiff and sore to move, and not until the
following day was I able to creep out to sit in the shade of the trees.
My old host, whose name was Nuflo, went off with his dogs, leaving
the girl to attend to my wants. Two or three times during the day she
appeared to serve me with food and drink, but she continued silent and
constrained in manner as on the first evening of seeing her in the hut.

Late in the afternoon old Nuflo returned, but did not say where he had
been; and shortly afterwards Rima reappeared, demure as usual, in her
faded cotton dress, her cloud of hair confined in two long plaits.
My curiosity was more excited than ever, and I resolved to get to
the bottom of the mystery of her life. The girl had not shown herself
responsive, but now that Nuflo was back I was treated to as much talk as
I cared to hear. He talked of many things, only omitting those which
I desired to hear about; but his pet subject appeared to be the
divine government of the world--"God's politics"--and its manifest
imperfections, or, in other words, the manifold abuses which from time
to time had been allowed to creep into it. The old man was pious, but
like many of his class in my country, he permitted himself to indulge in
very free criticisms of the powers above, from the King of Heaven down
to the smallest saint whose name figures in the calendar.

"These things, senor," he said, "are not properly managed. Consider my
position. Here am I compelled for my sins to inhabit this wilderness
with my poor granddaughter--"

"She is not your granddaughter!" I suddenly interrupted, thinking to
surprise him into an admission.

But he took his time to answer. "Senor, we are never sure of anything in
this world. Not absolutely sure. Thus, it may come to pass that you will
one day marry, and that your wife will in due time present you with
a son--one that will inherit your fortune and transmit your name
to posterity. And yet, sir, in this world, you will never know to a
certainty that he is your son."

"Proceed with what you were saying," I returned, with some dignity.

"Here we are," he continued, "compelled to inhabit this land and do not
meet with proper protection from the infidel. Now, sir, this is a crying
evil, and it is only becoming in one who has the true faith, and is a
loyal subject of the All-Powerful, to point out with due humility that
He is growing very remiss in His affairs, and is losing a good deal of
His prestige. And what, senor, is at the bottom of it? Favoritism. We
know that the Supreme cannot Himself be everywhere, attending to each
little trick-track that arises in the world--matters altogether beneath
His notice; and that He must, like the President of Venezuela or the
Emperor of Brazil, appoint men--angels if you like--to conduct His
affairs and watch over each district. And it is manifest that for this
country of Guayana the proper person has not been appointed. Every
evil is done and there is no remedy, and the Christian has no more
consideration shown him than the infidel. Now, senor, in a town near the
Orinoco I once saw on a church the archangel Michael, made of stone, and
twice as tall as a man, with one foot on a monster shaped like a cayman,
but with bat's wings, and a head and neck like a serpent. Into this
monster he was thrusting his spear. That is the kind of person that
should be sent to rule these latitudes--a person of firmness and
resolution, with strength in his wrist. And yet it is probable that this
very man--this St. Michael--is hanging about the palace, twirling his
thumbs, waiting for an appointment, while other weaker men, and--Heaven
forgive me for saying it--not above a bribe, perhaps, are sent out to
rule over this province."

On this string he would harp by the hour; it was a lofty subject on
which he had pondered much in his solitary life, and he was glad of an
opportunity of ventilating his grievance and expounding his views. At
first it was a pure pleasure to hear Spanish again, and the old man,
albeit ignorant of letters, spoke well; but this, I may say, is a common
thing in our country, where the peasant's quickness of intelligence and
poetic feeling often compensate for want of instruction. His views also
amused me, although they were not novel. But after a while I grew tired
of listening, yet I listened still, agreeing with him, and leading him
on to let him have his fill of talk, always hoping that he would come at
last to speak of personal matters and give me an account of his history
and of Rima's origin. But the hope proved vain; not a word to enlighten
me would he drop, however cunningly I tempted him.

"So be it," thought I; "but if you are cunning, old man, I shall be
cunning too--and patient; for all things come to him who waits."

He was in no hurry to get rid of me. On the contrary, he more than
hinted that I would be safer under his roof than with the Indians, at
the same time apologizing for not giving me meat to eat.

"But why do you not have meat? Never have I seen animals so abundant and
tame as in this wood." Before he could reply Rima, with a jug of water
from the spring in her hand, came in; glancing at me, he lifted his
finger to signify that such a subject must not be discussed in her
presence; but as soon as she quitted the room he returned to it.

"Senor," he said, "have you forgotten your adventure with the snake?
Know, then, that my grandchild would not live with me for one day longer
if I were to lift my hand against any living creature. For us, senor,
every day is fast-day--only without the fish. We have maize, pumpkin,
cassava, potatoes, and these suffice. And even of these cultivated
fruits of the earth she eats but little in the house, preferring certain
wild berries and gums, which are more to her taste, and which she picks
here and there in her rambles in the wood. And I, sir, loving her as I
do, whatever my inclination may be, shed no blood and eat no flesh."

I looked at him with an incredulous smile.

"And your dogs, old man?"

"My dogs? Sir, they would not pause or turn aside if a coatimundi
crossed their path--an animal with a strong odour. As a man is, so is
his dog. Have you not seen dogs eating grass, sir, even in Venezuela,
where these sentiments do not prevail? And when there is no meat--when
meat is forbidden--these sagacious animals accustom themselves to a
vegetable diet."

I could not very well tell the old man that he was lying to me--that
would have been bad policy--and so I passed it off. "I have no doubt
that you are right," I said. "I have heard that there are dogs in China
that eat no meat, but are themselves eaten by their owners after being
fattened on rice. I should not care to dine on one of your animals, old
man."

He looked at them critically and replied: "Certainly they are lean."

"I was thinking less of their leanness than of their smell," I returned.
"Their odour when they approach me is not flowery, but resembles that
of other dogs which feed on flesh, and have offended my too sensitive
nostrils even in the drawing-rooms of Caracas. It is not like the
fragrance of cattle when they return from the pasture."

"Every animal," he replied, "gives out that odour which is peculiar to
its kind"; an incontrovertible fact which left me nothing to say.

When I had sufficiently recovered the suppleness of my limbs to walk
with ease, I went for a ramble in the wood, in the hope that Rima would
accompany me, and that out among the trees she would cast aside that
artificial constraint and shyness which was her manner in the house.

It fell out just as I had expected; she accompanied me in the sense of
being always near me, or within earshot, and her manner was now free and
unconstrained as I could wish; but little or nothing was gained by the
change. She was once more the tantalizing, elusive, mysterious creature
I had first known through her wandering, melodious voice. The only
difference was that the musical, inarticulate sounds were now less often
heard, and that she was no longer afraid to show herself to me. This for
a short time was enough to make me happy, since no lovelier being was
ever looked upon, nor one whose loveliness was less likely to lose its
charm through being often seen.

But to keep her near me or always in sight was, I found, impossible: she
would be free as the wind, free as the butterfly, going and coming at
her wayward will, and losing herself from sight a dozen times every
hour. To induce her to walk soberly at my side or sit down and enter
into conversation with me seemed about as impracticable as to tame
the fiery-hearted little humming-bird that flashes into sight, remains
suspended motionless for a few seconds before your face, then, quick as
lightning, vanishes again.

At length, feeling convinced that she was most happy when she had me out
following her in the wood, that in spite of her bird-like wildness she
had a tender, human heart, which was easily moved, I determined to try
to draw her closer by means of a little innocent stratagem. Going out in
the morning, after calling her several times to no purpose, I began to
assume a downcast manner, as if suffering pain or depressed with grief;
and at last, finding a convenient exposed root under a tree, on a spot
where the ground was dry and strewn with loose yellow sand, I sat down
and refused to go any further. For she always wanted to lead me on and
on, and whenever I paused she would return to show herself, or to chide
or encourage me in her mysterious language. All her pretty little arts
were now practiced in vain: with cheek resting on my hand, I still sat.

So my eyes fixed on that patch of yellow sand at my feet, watching how
the small particles glinted like diamond dust when the sunlight touched
them. A full hour passed in this way, during which I encouraged myself
by saying mentally: "This is a contest between us, and the most patient
and the strongest of will, which should be the man, must conquer. And if
I win on this occasion, it will be easier for me in the future--easier
to discover those things which I am resolved to know, and the girl must
reveal to me, since the old man has proved impracticable."

Meanwhile she came and went and came again; and at last, finding that I
was not to be moved, she approached and stood near me. Her face, when I
glanced at it, had a somewhat troubled look--both troubled and curious.

"Come here, Rima," I said, "and stay with me for a little while--I
cannot follow you now."

She took one or two hesitating steps, then stood still again; and at
length, slowly and reluctantly, advanced to within a yard of me. Then
I rose from my seat on the root, so as to catch her face better, and
placed my hand against the rough bark of the tree.

"Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay with
me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language, but in
mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I speak to you, and
answer me?"

Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely disquieted, and
shook back her loose hair, and with her small toes moved the sparkling
sand at her feet, and once or twice her eyes glanced shyly at my face.

"Rima, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say yes?"

"Yes."

"Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with his
dogs?"

She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.

"Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"

"My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with a sudden,
wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she continued: "Oh, she is
dead! Her body is in the earth and turned to dust. Like that," and she
moved the loose sand with her foot. "Her soul is up there, where the
stars and the angels are, grandfather says. But what is that to me? I
am here--am I not? I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point
out, and tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are
together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast--so,
and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleep
together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you never answer me when I
speak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"

At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and at
the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.

"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you!
Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."

But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me
see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlike
and feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought no
response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.

"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do you
know that you will see her again some day?"

"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."

"The priest?"

"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was small--it is so
far away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river--just
here; and on this side--trees, trees."

This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very knowledge I
wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about the settlement she
had named, and of which I had never heard.

"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did not
know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen words she
had spoken.

Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what do
you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her picture? Your
grandfather told me that you had a picture in your little room."

"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like resentment.

"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut. "Out here
in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping quickly, she raised
a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it run away through her
fingers.

Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught slipped
from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of the picture.
After an interval she added: "Only mother is here--always with me."

"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your old
grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and flies away to
the starry country where your mother is?"

She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice: "You are
here."

"But when I go away?"

She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed to
pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not stay with
me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I remain with you?
Why are you always so silent in the house, so cold with your old
grandfather? So different--so full of life, like a bird, when you are
alone in the woods? Rima, speak to me! Am I no more to you than your old
grandfather? Do you not like me to talk to you?"

She appeared strangely disturbed at my words. "Oh, you are not like
him," she suddenly replied. "Sitting all day on a log by the fire--all
day, all day; Goloso and Susio lying beside him--sleep, sleep. Oh, when
I saw you in the wood I followed you, and talked and talked; still no
answer. Why will you not come when I call? To me!" Then, mocking my
voice: "Rima, Rima! Come here! Do this! Say that! Rima! Rima! It is
nothing, nothing--it is not you," pointing to my mouth, and then, as if
fearing that her meaning had not been made clear, suddenly touching my
lips with her finger. "Why do you not answer me?--speak to me--speak to
me, like this!" And turning a little more towards me, and glancing at me
with eyes that had all at once changed, losing their clouded expression
for one of exquisite tenderness, from her lips came a succession of
those mysterious sounds which had first attracted me to her, swift
and low and bird-like, yet with something so much higher and more
soul-penetrating than any bird-music. Ah, what feeling and fancies, what
quaint turns of expression, unfamiliar to my mind, were contained in
those sweet, wasted symbols! I could never know--never come to her
when she called, or respond to her spirit. To me they would always
be inarticulate sounds, affecting me like a tender spiritual music--a
language without words, suggesting more than words to the soul.

The mysterious speech died down to a lisping sound, like the faint note
of some small bird falling from a cloud of foliage on the topmost bough
of a tree; and at the same time that new light passed from her eyes, and
she half averted her face in a disappointed way.

"Rima," I said at length, a new thought coming to my aid, "it is true
that I am not here," touching my lips as she had done, "and that
my words are nothing. But look into my eyes, and you will see me
there--all, all that is in my heart."

"Oh, I know what I should see there!" she returned quickly.

"What would you see--tell me?"

"There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should see
myself in it no bigger than that," and she marked off about an eighth of
her little fingernail. "There is a pool in the wood, and I look down and
see myself there. That is better. Just as large as I am--not small
and black like a small, small fly." And after saying this a little
disdainfully, she moved away from my side and out into the sunshine; and
then, half turning towards me, and glancing first at my face and then
upwards, she raised her hand to call my attention to something there.

Far up, high as the tops of the tallest trees, a great blue-winged
butterfly was passing across the open space with loitering flight. In a
few moments it was gone over the trees; then she turned once more to
me with a little rippling sound of laughter--the first I had heard from
her, and called: "Come, come!"

I was glad enough to go with her then; and for the next two hours we
rambled together in the wood; that is, together in her way, for though
always near she contrived to keep out of my sight most of the time. She
was evidently now in a gay, frolicsome temper; again and again, when I
looked closely into some wide-spreading bush, or peered behind a tree,
when her calling voice had sounded, her rippling laughter would come to
me from some other spot. At length, somewhere about the centre of the
wood, she led me to an immense mora tree, growing almost isolated,
covering with its shade a large space of ground entirely free from
undergrowth. At this spot she all at once vanished from my side; and
after listening and watching some time in vain, I sat down beside the
giant trunk to wait for her. Very soon I heard a low, warbling sound
which seemed quite near.

"Rima! Rima!" I called, and instantly my call was repeated like an echo.
Again and again I called, and still the words flew back to me, and I
could not decide whether it was an echo or not. Then I gave up calling;
and presently the low, warbling sound was repeated, and I knew that Rima
was somewhere near me.

"Rima, where are you?" I called.

"Rima, where are you?" came the answer.

"You are behind the tree."

"You are behind the tree."

"I shall catch you, Rima." And this time, instead of repeating my words,
she answered: "Oh no."

I jumped up and ran round the tree, feeling sure that I should find her.
It was about thirty-five or forty feet in circumference; and after going
round two or three times, I turned and ran the other way, but failing to
catch a glimpse of her I at last sat down again.

"Rima, Rima!" sounded the mocking voice as soon as I had sat down.
"Where are you, Rima? I shall catch you, Rima! Have you caught Rima?"

"No, I have not caught her. There is no Rima now. She has faded away
like a rainbow--like a drop of dew in the sun. I have lost her; I shall
go to sleep." And stretching myself out at full length under the tree,
I remained quiet for two or three minutes. Then a slight rustling
sound was heard, and I looked eagerly round for her. But the sound
was overhead and caused by a great avalanche of leaves which began to
descend on me from that vast leafy canopy above.

"Ah, little spider-monkey--little green tree-snake--you are there!"
But there was no seeing her in that immense aerial palace hung with dim
drapery of green and copper-coloured leaves. But how had she got there?
Up the stupendous trunk even a monkey could not have climbed, and there
were no lianas dropping to earth from the wide horizontal branches that
I could see; but by and by, looking further away, I perceived that on
one side the longest lower branches reached and mingled with the shorter
boughs of the neighbouring trees. While gazing up I heard her low,
rippling laugh, and then caught sight of her as she ran along an exposed
horizontal branch, erect on her feet; and my heart stood still with
terror, for she was fifty to sixty feet above the ground. In another
moment she vanished from sight in a cloud of foliage, and I saw no more
of her for about ten minutes, when all at once she appeared at my side
once more, having come round the trunk of the mora. Her face had a
bright, pleased expression, and showed no trace of fatigue or agitation.

I caught her hand in mine. It was a delicate, shapely little hand, soft
as velvet, and warm--a real human hand; only now when I held it did she
seem altogether like a human being and not a mocking spirit of the wood,
a daughter of the Didi.

"Do you like me to hold your hand, Rima?"

"Yes," she replied, with indifference.

"Is it I?"

"Yes." This time as if it was small satisfaction to make acquaintance
with this purely physical part of me.

Having her so close gave me an opportunity of examining that light
sheeny garment she wore always in the woods. It felt soft and satiny to
the touch, and there was no seam nor hem in it that I could see, but it
was all in one piece, like the cocoon of the caterpillar. While I was
feeling it on her shoulder and looking narrowly at it, she glanced at me
with a mocking laugh in her eyes.

"Is it silk?" I asked. Then, as she remained silent, I continued: "Where
did you get this dress, Rima? Did you make it yourself? Tell me."

She answered not in words, but in response to my question a new look
came into her face; no longer restless and full of change in her
expression, she was now as immovable as an alabaster statue; not a
silken hair on her head trembled; her eyes were wide open, gazing
fixedly before her; and when I looked into them they seemed to see and
yet not to see me. They were like the clear, brilliant eyes of a bird,
which reflect as in a miraculous mirror all the visible world but do not
return our look and seem to see us merely as one of the thousand small
details that make up the whole picture. Suddenly she darted out her
hand like a flash, making me start at the unexpected motion, and quickly
withdrawing it, held up a finger before me. From its tip a minute
gossamer spider, about twice the bigness of a pin's head, appeared
suspended from a fine, scarcely visible line three or four inches long.

"Look!" she exclaimed, with a bright glance at my face.

The small spider she had captured, anxious to be free, was falling,
falling earthward, but could not reach the surface. Leaning her shoulder
a little forward, she placed the finger-tip against it, but lightly,
scarcely touching, and moving continuously, with a motion rapid as that
of a fluttering moth's wing; while the spider, still paying out his
line, remained suspended, rising and falling slightly at nearly the same
distance from the ground. After a few moments she cried: "Drop down,
little spider." Her finger's motion ceased, and the minute captive fell,
to lose itself on the shaded ground.

"Do you not see?" she said to me, pointing to her shoulder. Just where
the finger-tip had touched the garment a round shining spot appeared,
looking like a silver coin on the cloth; but on touching it with my
finger it seemed part of the original fabric, only whiter and more shiny
on the grey ground, on account of the freshness of the web of which it
had just been made.

And so all this curious and pretty performance, which seemed instinctive
in its spontaneous quickness and dexterity, was merely intended to show
me how she made her garments out of the fine floating lines of small
gossamer spiders!

Before I could express my surprise and admiration she cried again, with
startling suddenness: "Look!"

A minute shadowy form darted by, appearing like a dim line traced across
the deep glossy more foliage, then on the lighter green foliage further
away. She waved her hand in imitation of its swift, curving flight;
then, dropping it, exclaimed: "Gone--oh, little thing!"

"What was it?" I asked, for it might have been a bird, a bird-like moth,
or a bee.

"Did you not see? And you asked me to look into your eyes!"

"Ah, little squirrel Sakawinki, you remind me of that!" I said, passing
my arm round her waist and drawing her a little closer. "Look into my
eyes now and see if I am blind, and if there is nothing in them except
an image of Rima like a small, small fly."

She shook her head and laughed a little mockingly, but made no effort to
escape from my arm.

"Would you like me always to do what you wish, Rima--to follow you in
the woods when you say 'Come'--to chase you round the tree to catch you,
and lie down for you to throw leaves on me, and to be glad when you are
glad?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then let us make a compact. I shall do everything to please you, and
you must promise to do everything to please me."

"Tell me."

"Little things, Rima--none so hard as chasing you round a tree. Only to
have you stand or sit by me and talk will make me happy. And to begin
you must call me by my name--Abel."

"Is that your name? Oh, not your real name! Abel, Abel--what is that? It
says nothing. I have called you by so many names--twenty, thirty--and no
answer."

"Have you? But, dearest girl, every person has a name, one name he is
called by. Your name, for instance, is Rima, is it not?"

"Rima! only Rima--to you? In the morning, in the evening... now in this
place and in a little while where know I? ... in the night when you wake
and it is dark, dark, and you see me all the same. Only Rima--oh, how
strange!"

"What else, sweet girl? Your grandfather Nuflo calls you Rima."

"Nuflo?" She spoke as if putting a question to herself. "Is that an
old man with two dogs that lives somewhere in the wood?" And then, with
sudden petulance: "And you ask me to talk to you!"

"Oh, Rima, what can I say to you? Listen--"

"No, no," she exclaimed, quickly turning and putting her fingers on my
mouth to stop my speech, while a sudden merry look shone in her eyes.
"You shall listen when I speak, and do all I say. And tell me what to
do to please you with your eyes--let me look in your eyes that are not
blind."

She turned her face more towards me and with head a little thrown back
and inclined to one side, gazing now full into my eyes as I had wished
her to do. After a few moments she glanced away to the distant trees.
But I could see into those divine orbs, and knew that she was
not looking at any particular object. All the ever-varying
expressions--inquisitive, petulant, troubled, shy, frolicsome had now
vanished from the still face, and the look was inward and full of a
strange, exquisite light, as if some new happiness or hope had touched
her spirit.

Sinking my voice to a whisper, I said: "Tell me what you have seen in my
eyes, Rima?"

She murmured in reply something melodious and inarticulate, then glanced
at my face in a questioning way; but only for a moment, then her sweet
eyes were again veiled under those drooping lashes.

"Listen, Rima," I said. "Was that a humming-bird we saw a little while
ago? You are like that, now dark, a shadow in the shadow, seen for
an instant, and then--gone, oh, little thing! And now in the sunshine
standing still, how beautiful!--a thousand times more beautiful than
the humming-bird. Listen, Rima, you are like all beautiful things in the
wood--flower, and bird, and butterfly, and green leaf, and frond, and
little silky-haired monkey high up in the trees. When I look at you I
see them all--all and more, a thousand times, for I see Rima herself.
And when I listen to Rima's voice, talking in a language I cannot
understand, I hear the wind whispering in the leaves, the gurgling
running water, the bee among the flowers, the organ-bird singing far,
far away in the shadows of the trees. I hear them all, and more, for
I hear Rima. Do you understand me now? Is it I speaking to you--have I
answered you--have I come to you?"

She glanced at me again, her lips trembling, her eyes now clouded with
some secret trouble. "Yes," she replied in a whisper, and then: "No, it
is not you," and after a moment, doubtfully: "Is it you?"

But she did not wait to be answered: in a moment she was gone round the
more; nor would she return again for all my calling.

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

completion: When Abel regains consciousness, he finds himself in the hut of an old man, Nuflo. The forest girl is also in the shack and watches Abel very carefully although she remains in the background. Nuflo identifies the girl as Rima, his granddaughter, but Abel is not convinced by his explanation. According to Nuflo, Rima is seventeen years old, has been baptized a Christian, and has received a rudimentary education-principally through the efforts of Nuflo. Abel supposes that he was saved from death from the snakebite because of the lack of sufficient venom in the reptile's fangs. Nuflo and Rima speak Spanish, but Abel observes that she is reluctant to express herself in that language. Abel, weak and bruised from his ordeal, rests comfortably in his new home. As Abel regains his strength, his curiosity is aroused by the facts of Rima's life and the reason for Nuflo's isolated existence in the hinterland. Although the old man is very talkative, he is still reticent about certain details of the past, and Abel secures with difficulty an indirect admission from Nuflo that Rima is not really his granddaughter. Rima is downcast because Abel cannot communicate in the bird language she prefers to use instead of Spanish. She is elusive and mysterious, and her silence tantalizes Abel. Abel tries to make her understand that she must talk to him in Spanish despite her preference for the language of the birds. Rima, remaining distant most of the time, is questioned further by Abel; slowly she tells him about the past and about her present anguish. Rima's mother died when she was very young, and she was given some religious instruction by the priest at Voa where they lived. Her obvious anguish at the loss of her mother hides also "some secret trouble," but Abel treats her gently in hope of winning her full confidence -- and her love.


prompt:
Chapter: That afternoon with Rima in the forest under the mora tree had proved so
delightful that I was eager for more rambles and talks with her, but the
variable little witch had a great surprise in store for me. All her wild
natural gaiety had unaccountably gone out of her: when I walked in
the shade she was there, but no longer as the blithe, fantastic being,
bright as an angel, innocent and affectionate as a child, tricksy as a
monkey, that had played at hide-and-seek with me. She was now my shy,
silent attendant, only occasionally visible, and appearing then like
the mysterious maid I had found reclining among the ferns who had melted
away mist-like from sight as I gazed. When I called she would not now
answer as formerly, but in response would appear in sight as if to
assure me that I had not been forsaken; and after a few moments her grey
shadowy form would once more vanish among the trees. The hope that as
her confidence increased and she grew accustomed to talk with me she
would be brought to reveal the story of her life had to be abandoned, at
all events for the present. I must, after all, get my information from
Nuflo, or rest in ignorance. The old man was out for the greater part
of each day with his dogs, and from these expeditions he brought back
nothing that I could see but a few nuts and fruits, some thin bark for
his cigarettes, and an occasional handful of haima gum to perfume the
hut of an evening. After I had wasted three days in vainly trying to
overcome the girl's now inexplicable shyness, I resolved to give for
a while my undivided attention to her grandfather to discover, if
possible, where he went and how he spent his time.

My new game of hide-and-seek with Nuflo instead of with Rima began
on the following morning. He was cunning; so was I. Going out and
concealing myself among the bushes, I began to watch the hut. That I
could elude Rima's keener eyes I doubted; but that did not trouble me.
She was not in harmony with the old man, and would do nothing to defeat
my plan. I had not been long in my hiding-place before he came out,
followed by his two dogs, and going to some distance from the door,
he sat down on a log. For some minutes he smoked, then rose, and after
looking cautiously round slipped away among the trees. I saw that he was
going off in the direction of the low range of rocky hills south of the
forest. I knew that the forest did not extend far in that direction, and
thinking that I should be able to catch a sight of him on its borders,
I left the bushes and ran through the trees as fast as I could to get
ahead of him. Coming to where the wood was very open, I found that a
barren plain beyond it, a quarter of a mile wide, separated it from the
range of hills; thinking that the old man might cross this open space,
I climbed into a tree to watch. After some time he appeared, walking
rapidly among the trees, the dogs at his heels, but not going towards
the open plain; he had, it seemed, after arriving at the edge of the
wood, changed his direction and was going west, still keeping in the
shelter of the trees. When he had been gone about five minutes, I
dropped to the ground and started in pursuit; once more I caught sight
of him through the trees, and I kept him in sight for about twenty
minutes longer; then he came to a broad strip of dense wood which
extended into and through the range of hills, and here I quickly lost
him. Hoping still to overtake him, I pushed on, but after struggling
through the underwood for some distance, and finding the forest growing
more difficult as I progressed, I at last gave him up. Turning eastward,
I got out of the wood to find myself at the foot of a steep rough hill,
one of the range which the wooded valley cut through at right angles. It
struck me that it would be a good plan to climb the hill to get a view
of the forest belt in which I had lost the old man; and after walking a
short distance I found a spot which allowed of an ascent. The summit of
the hill was about three hundred feet above the surrounding level and
did not take me long to reach; it commanded a fair view, and I now saw
that the belt of wood beneath me extended right through the range, and
on the south side opened out into an extensive forest. "If that is your
destination," thought I, "old fox, your secrets are safe from me."

It was still early in the day, and a slight breeze tempered the air and
made it cool and pleasant on the hilltop after my exertions. My scramble
through the wood had fatigued me somewhat, and resolving to spend some
hours on that spot, I looked round for a comfortable resting-place. I
soon found a shady spot on the west side of an upright block of stone
where I could recline at ease on a bed of lichen. Here, with shoulders
resting against the rock, I sat thinking of Rima, alone in her wood
today, with just a tinge of bitterness in my thoughts which made me hope
that she would miss me as much as I missed her; and in the end I fell
asleep.

When I woke, it was past noon, and the sun was shining directly on me.
Standing up to gaze once more on the prospect, I noticed a small wreath
of white smoke issuing from a spot about the middle of the forest belt
beneath me, and I instantly divined that Nuflo had made a fire at that
place, and I resolved to surprise him in his retreat. When I got down
to the base of the hill the smoke could no longer be seen, but I had
studied the spot well from above, and had singled out a large clump of
trees on the edge of the belt as a starting-point; and after a search of
half an hour I succeeded in finding the old man's hiding-place. First I
saw smoke again through an opening in the trees, then a small rude hut
of sticks and palm leaves. Approaching cautiously, I peered through a
crack and discovered old Nuflo engaged in smoking some meat over a fire,
and at the same time grilling some bones on the coals. He had captured
a coatimundi, an animal somewhat larger than a tame tom-cat, with a long
snout and long ringed tail; one of the dogs was gnawing at the animal's
head, and the tail and the feet were also lying on the floor, among
the old bones and rubbish that littered it. Stealing round, I suddenly
presented myself at the opening to his den, when the dogs rose up with a
growl and Nuflo instantly leaped to his feet, knife in hand.

"Aha, old man," I cried, with a laugh, "I have found you at one of your
vegetarian repasts; and your grass-eating dogs as well!"

He was disconcerted and suspicious, but when I explained that I had seen
a smoke while on the hills, where I had gone to search for a curious
blue flower which grew in such places, and had made my way to it to
discover the cause, he recovered confidence and invited me to join him
at his dinner of roast meat.

I was hungry by this time and not sorry to get animal food once more;
nevertheless, I ate this meat with some disgust, as it had a rank taste
and smell, and it was also unpleasant to have those evil-looking dogs
savagely gnawing at the animal's head and feet at the same time.

"You see," said the old hypocrite, wiping the grease from his moustache,
"this is what I am compelled to do in order to avoid giving offence. My
granddaughter is a strange being, sir, as you have perhaps observed--"

"That reminds me," I interrupted, "that I wish you to relate her history
to me. She is, as you say, strange, and has speech and faculties unlike
ours, which shows that she comes of a different race."

"No, no, her faculties are not different from ours. They are sharper,
that is all. It pleases the All-Powerful to give more to some than to
others. Not all the fingers on the hand are alike. You will find a man
who will take up a guitar and make it speak, while I--"

"All that I understand," I broke in again. "But her origin, her
history--that is what I wish to hear."

"And that, sir, is precisely what I am about to relate. Poor child,
she was left on my hands by her sainted mother--my daughter, sir--who
perished young. Now, her birthplace, where she was taught letters and
the Catechism by the priest, was in an unhealthy situation. It was
hot and wet--always wet--a place suited to frogs rather than to human
beings. At length, thinking that it would suit the child better--for she
was pale and weakly--to live in a drier atmosphere among mountains, I
brought her to this district. For this, senor, and for all I have done
for her, I look for no reward here, but to that place where my daughter
has got her foot; not, sir, on the threshold, as you might think, but
well inside. For, after all, it is to the authorities above, in spite of
some blots which we see in their administration, that we must look for
justice. Frankly, sir, this is the whole story of my granddaughter's
origin."

"Ah, yes," I returned, "your story explains why she can call a wild bird
to her hand, and touch a venomous serpent with her bare foot and receive
no harm."

"Doubtless you are right," said the old dissembler. "Living alone in the
wood, she had only God's creatures to play and make friends with; and
wild animals, I have heard it said, know those who are friendly towards
them."

"You treat her friends badly," said I, kicking the long tail of the
coatimundi away with my foot, and regretting that I had joined in his
repast.

"Senor, you must consider that we are only what Heaven made us. When all
this was formed," he continued, opening his arms wide to indicate the
entire creation, "the Person who concerned Himself with this matter gave
seeds and fruitless and nectar of flowers for the sustentation of His
small birds. But we have not their delicate appetites. The more robust
stomach which he gave to man cries out for meat. Do you understand? But
of all this, friend, not one word to Rima!"

I laughed scornfully. "Do you think me such a child, old man, as to
believe that Rima, that little sprite, does not know that you are an
eater of flesh? Rima, who is everywhere in the wood, seeing all things,
even if I lift my hand against a serpent, she herself unseen."

"But, sir, if you will pardon my presumption, you are saying too much.
She does not come here, and therefore cannot see that I eat meat. In all
that wood where she flourishes and sings, where she is in her house and
garden, and mistress of the creatures, even of the small butterfly with
painted wings, there, sir, I hunt no animal. Nor will my dogs chase any
animal there. That is what I meant when I said that if an animal should
stumble against their legs, they would lift up their noses and pass on
without seeing it. For in that wood there is one law, the law that Rima
imposes, and outside of it a different law."

"I am glad that you have told me this," I replied. "The thought that
Rima might be near, and, unseen herself, look in upon us feeding with
the dogs and, like dogs, on flesh, was one which greatly troubled my
mind."

He glanced at me in his usual quick, cunning way.

"Ah, senor, you have that feeling too--after so short a time with us!
Consider, then, what it must be for me, unable to nourish myself on gums
and fruitlets, and that little sweetness made by wasps out of flowers,
when I am compelled to go far away and eat secretly to avoid giving
offence."

It was hard, no doubt, but I did not pity him; secretly I could only
feel anger against him for refusing to enlighten me, while making such
a presence of openness; and I also felt disgusted with myself for having
joined him in his rank repast. But dissimulation was necessary, and so,
after conversing a little more on indifferent topics, and thanking him
for his hospitality, I left him alone to go on with his smoky task.

On my way back to the lodge, fearing that some taint of Nuflo's
evil-smelling den and dinner might still cling to me, I turned aside to
where a streamlet in the wood widened and formed a deep pool, to take
a plunge in the water. After drying myself in the air, and thoroughly
ventilating my garments by shaking and beating them, I found an open,
shady spot in the wood and threw myself on the grass to wait for evening
before returning to the house. By that time the sweet, warm air would
have purified me. Besides, I did not consider that I had sufficiently
punished Rima for her treatment of me. She would be anxious for my
safety, perhaps even looking for me everywhere in the wood. It was not
much to make her suffer one day after she had made me miserable for
three; and perhaps when she discovered that I could exist without her
society she would begin to treat me less capriciously.

So ran my thoughts as I rested on the warm ground, gazing up into the
foliage, green as young grass in the lower, shady parts, and above
luminous with the bright sunlight, and full of the murmuring sounds of
insect life. My every action, word, thought, had my feeling for Rima
as a motive. Why, I began to ask myself, was Rima so much to me? It was
easy to answer that question: Because nothing so exquisite had ever been
created. All the separate and fragmentary beauty and melody and
graceful motion found scattered throughout nature were concentrated and
harmoniously combined in her. How various, how luminous, how divine she
was! A being for the mind to marvel at, to admire continually, finding
some new grace and charm every hour, every moment, to add to the old.
And there was, besides, the fascinating mystery surrounding her origin
to arouse and keep my interest in her continually active.

That was the easy answer I returned to the question I had asked myself.
But I knew that there was another answer--a reason more powerful than
the first. And I could no longer thrust it back, or hide its shining
face with the dull, leaden mask of mere intellectual curiosity. BECAUSE
I LOVED HER; loved her as I had never loved before, never could love
any other being, with a passion which had caught something of her
own brilliance and intensity, making a former passion look dim and
commonplace in comparison--a feeling known to everyone, something old
and worn out, a weariness even to think of.

From these reflections I was roused by the plaintive three-syllable call
of an evening bird--a nightjar common in these woods; and was surprised
to find that the sun had set, and the woods already shadowed with the
twilight. I started up and began hurriedly walking homewards, thinking
of Rima, and was consumed with impatience to see her; and as I drew near
to the house, walking along a narrow path which I knew, I suddenly met
her face to face. Doubtless she had heard my approach, and instead of
shrinking out of the path and allowing me to pass on without seeing her,
as she would have done on the previous day, she had sprung forward to
meet me. I was struck with wonder at the change in her as she came with
a swift, easy motion, like a flying bird, her hands outstretched as if
to clasp mine, her lips parted in a radiant, welcoming smile, her eyes
sparkling with joy.

I started forward to meet her, but had no sooner touched her hands than
her countenance changed, and she shrunk back trembling, as if the touch
had chilled her warm blood; and moving some feet away, she stood with
downcast eyes, pale and sorrowful as she had seemed yesterday. In vain I
implored her to tell me the cause of this change and of the trouble she
evidently felt; her lips trembled as if with speech, but she made no
reply, and only shrunk further away when I attempted to approach her;
and at length, moving aside from the path, she was lost to sight in the
dusky leafage.

I went on alone, and sat outside for some time, until old Nuflo returned
from his hunting; and only after he had gone in and had made the fire
burn up did Rima make her appearance, silent and constrained as ever.

On the following day Rima continued in the same inexplicable humour; and
feeling my defeat keenly, I determined once more to try the effect of
absence on her, and to remain away on this occasion for a longer period.
Like old Nuflo, I was secret in going forth next morning, waiting until
the girl was out of the way, then slipping off among the bushes into
the deeper wood; and finally quitting its shelter, I set out across the
savannah towards my old quarters. Great was my surprise on arriving
at the village to find no person there. At first I imagined that my
disappearance in the forest of evil fame had caused them to abandon
their home in a panic; but on looking round I concluded that my friends
had only gone on one of their periodical visits to some neighbouring
village. For when these Indians visit their neighbours they do it in a
very thorough manner; they all go, taking with them their entire stock
of provisions, their cooking utensils, weapons, hammocks, and even
their pet animals. Fortunately in this case they had not taken quite
everything; my hammock was there, also one small pot, some cassava
bread, purple potatoes, and a few ears of maize. I concluded that these
had been left for me in the event of my return; also that they had not
been gone very many hours, since a log of wood buried under the ashes
of the hearth was still alight. Now, as their absences from home usually
last many days, it was plain that I would have the big naked barn-like
house to myself for as long as I thought proper to remain, with little
food to eat; but the prospect did not disturb me, and I resolved to
amuse myself with music. In vain I hunted for my guitar; the Indians
had taken it to delight their friends by twanging its strings. At odd
moments during the last day or two I had been composing a simple melody
in my brain, fitting it to ancient words; and now, without an instrument
to assist me, I began softly singing to myself:

    Muy mas clara que la luna
    Sola una
    en el mundo vos nacistes.

After music I made up the fire and parched an ear of maize for my
dinner, and while laboriously crunching the dry hard grain I thanked
Heaven for having bestowed on me such good molars. Finally I slung my
hammock in its old corner, and placing myself in it in my favourite
oblique position, my hands clasped behind my head, one knee cocked up,
the other leg dangling down, I resigned myself to idle thought. I felt
very happy. How strange, thought I, with a little self-flattery, that
I, accustomed to the agreeable society of intelligent men and charming
women, and of books, should find such perfect contentment here! But I
congratulated myself too soon. The profound silence began at length to
oppress me. It was not like the forest, where one has wild birds for
company, where their cries, albeit inarticulate, have a meaning and give
a charm to solitude. Even the sight and whispered sounds of green leaves
and rushes trembling in the wind have for us something of intelligence
and sympathy; but I could not commune with mud walls and an earthen pot.
Feeling my loneliness too acutely, I began to regret that I had left
Rima, then to feel remorse at the secrecy I had practiced. Even now
while I inclined idly in my hammock, she would be roaming the forest in
search of me, listening for my footsteps, fearing perhaps that I had
met with some accident where there was no person to succour me. It was
painful to think of her in this way, of the pain I had doubtless given
her by stealing off without a word of warning. Springing to the floor, I
flung out of the house and went down to the stream. It was better there,
for now the greatest heat of the day was over, and the weltering sun
began to look large and red and rayless through the afternoon haze.

I seated myself on a stone within a yard or two of the limpid water; and
now the sight of nature and the warm, vital air and sunshine infected
my spirit and made it possible for me to face the position calmly,
even hopefully. The position was this: for some days the idea had been
present in my mind, and was now fixed there, that this desert was to
be my permanent home. The thought of going back to Caracas, that little
Paris in America, with its Old World vices, its idle political passions,
its empty round of gaieties, was unendurable. I was changed, and this
change--so great, so complete--was proof that the old artificial life
had not been and could not be the real one, in harmony with my deeper
and truer nature. I deceived myself, you will say, as I have often
myself said. I had and I had not. It is too long a question to
discuss here; but just then I felt that I had quitted the hot, tainted
atmosphere of the ballroom, that the morning air of heaven refreshed and
elevated me and was sweet to breathe. Friends and relations I had who
were dear to me; but I could forget them, even as I could forget the
splendid dreams which had been mine. And the woman I had loved, and
who perhaps loved me in return--I could forget her too. A daughter of
civilization and of that artificial life, she could never experience
such feelings as these and return to nature as I was doing. For women,
though within narrow limits more plastic than men, are yet without that
larger adaptiveness which can take us back to the sources of life, which
they have left eternally behind. Better, far better for both of us that
she should wait through the long, slow months, growing sick at heart
with hope deferred; that, seeing me no more, she should weep my loss,
and be healed at last by time, and find love and happiness again in the
old way, in the old place.

And while I thus sat thinking, sadly enough, but not despondingly, of
past and present and future, all at once on the warm, still air came
the resonant, far-reaching KLING-KLANG of the campanero from some leafy
summit half a league away. KLING-KLANG fell the sound again, and
often again, at intervals, affecting me strangely at that moment, so
bell-like, so like the great wide-travelling sounds associated in our
minds with Christian worship. And yet so unlike. A bell, yet not made of
gross metal dug out of earth, but of an ethereal, sublimer material
that floats impalpable and invisible in space--a vital bell suspended on
nothing, giving out sounds in harmony with the vastness of blue heaven,
the unsullied purity of nature, the glory of the sun, and conveying a
mystic, a higher message to the soul than the sounds that surge from
tower and belfry.

O mystic bell-bird of the heavenly race of the swallow and dove, the
quetzal and the nightingale! When the brutish savage and the brutish
white man that slay thee, one for food, the other for the benefit of
science, shall have passed away, live still, live to tell thy message to
the blameless spiritualized race that shall come after us to possess the
earth, not for a thousand years, but for ever; for how much shall thy
voice be our clarified successors when even to my dull, unpurged soul
thou canst speak such high things and bring it a sense of an impersonal,
all-compromising One who is in me and I in Him, flesh of His flesh and
soul of His soul.

The sounds ceased, but I was still in that exalted mood and, like a
person in a trance, staring fixedly before me into the open wood of
scattered dwarf trees on the other side of the stream, when suddenly on
the field of vision appeared a grotesque human figure moving towards me.
I started violently, astonished and a little alarmed, but in a very
few moments I recognized the ancient Cla-cla, coming home with a large
bundle of dry sticks on her shoulders, bent almost double under the
burden, and still ignorant of my presence. Slowly she came down to the
stream, then cautiously made her way over the line of stepping-stones
by which it was crossed; and only when within ten yards did the old
creature catch sight of me sitting silent and motionless in her path.
With a sharp cry of amazement and terror she straightened herself up,
the bundle of sticks dropping to the ground, and turned to run from
me. That, at all events, seemed her intention, for her body was thrown
forward, and her head and arms working like those of a person going at
full speed, but her legs seemed paralysed and her feet remained planted
on the same spot. I burst out laughing; whereat she twisted her neck
until her wrinkled, brown old face appeared over her shoulder staring at
me. This made me laugh again, whereupon she straightened herself up once
more and turned round to have a good look at me.

"Come, Cla-cla," I cried; "can you not see that I am a living man and no
spirit? I thought no one had remained behind to keep me company and give
me food. Why are you not with the others?"

"Ah, why!" she returned tragically. And then deliberately turning
from me and assuming a most unladylike attitude, she slapped herself
vigorously on the small of the back, exclaiming: "Because of my pain
here!"

As she continued in that position with her back towards me for some
time, I laughed once more and begged her to explain.

Slowly she turned round and advanced cautiously towards me, staring at
me all the time. Finally, still eyeing me suspiciously, she related that
the others had all gone on a visit to a distant village, she starting
with them; that after going some distance a pain had attacked her in her
hind quarters, so sudden and acute that it had instantly brought her to
a full stop; and to illustrate how full the stop was she allowed herself
to go down, very unnecessarily, with a flop to the ground. But she no
sooner touched the ground than up she started to her feet again, with
an alarmed look on her owlish face, as if she had sat down on a
stinging-nettle.

"We thought you were dead," she remarked, still thinking that I might be
a ghost after all.

"No, still alive," I said. "And so because you came to the ground with
your pain, they left you behind! Well, never mind, Cla-cla, we are two
now and must try to be happy together."

By this time she had recovered from her fear and began to feel highly
pleased at my return, only lamenting that she had no meat to give
me. She was anxious to hear my adventures, and the reason of my long
absence. I had no wish to gratify her curiosity, with the truth at all
events, knowing very well that with regard to the daughter of the Didi
her feelings were as purely savage and malignant as those of Kua-ko. But
it was necessary to say something, and, fortifying myself with the good
old Spanish notion that lies told to the heathen are not recorded, I
related that a venomous serpent had bitten me; after which a terrible
thunderstorm had surprised me in the forest, and night coming on
prevented my escape from it; then, next day, remembering that he who is
bitten by a serpent dies, and not wishing to distress my friends with
the sight of my dissolution, I elected to remain, sitting there in the
wood, amusing myself by singing songs and smoking cigarettes; and after
several days and nights had gone by, finding that I was not going to die
after all, and beginning to feel hungry, I got up and came back.

Old Cla-cla looked very serious, shaking and nodding her head a great
deal, muttering to herself; finally she gave it as her opinion that
nothing ever would or could kill me; but whether my story had been
believed or not she only knew.

I spent an amusing evening with my old savage hostess. She had thrown
off her ailments and, pleased at having a companion in her dreary
solitude, she was good-tempered and talkative, and much more inclined to
laugh than when the others were present, when she was on her dignity.

We sat by the fire, cooking such food as we had, and talked and smoked;
then I sang her songs in Spanish with that melody of my own--

    Muy mas clara que la luna;

and she rewarded me by emitting a barbarous chant in a shrill, screechy
voice; and finally, starting up, I danced for her benefit polka,
mazurka, and valse, whistling and singing to my motions.

More than once during the evening she tried to introduce serious
subjects, telling me that I must always live with them, learn to shoot
the birds and catch the fishes, and have a wife; and then she would
speak of her granddaughter Oalava, whose virtues it was proper to
mention, but whose physical charms needed no description since they had
never been concealed. Each time she got on this topic I cut her short,
vowing that if I ever married she only should be my wife. She informed
me that she was old and past her fruitful period; that not much longer
would she make cassava bread, and blow the fire to a flame with her
wheezy old bellows, and talk the men to sleep at night. But I stuck to
it that she was young and beautiful, that our descendants would be more
numerous than the birds in the forest. I went out to some bushes close
by, where I had noticed a passion plant in bloom, and gathering a few
splendid scarlet blossoms with their stems and leaves, I brought them in
and wove them into a garland for the old dame's head; then I pulled her
up, in spite of screams and struggles, and waltzed her wildly to the
other end of the room and back again to her seat beside the fire. And
as she sat there, panting and grinning with laughter, I knelt before her
and, with suitable passionate gestures, declaimed again the old delicate
lines sung by Mena before Columbus sailed the seas:

    Muy mas clara que la luna
    Sola una
    en el mundo vos nacistes
    tan gentil, que no vecistes
    ni tavistes
    competedora ninguna
    Desdi ninez en la cuna
    cobrastes fama, beldad, con tanta graciosidad,
    que vos doto la fortuna.

Thinking of another all the time! O poor old Cla-cla, knowing not what
the jingle meant nor the secret of my wild happiness, now when I recall
you sitting there, your old grey owlish head crowned with scarlet
passion flowers, flushed with firelight, against the background of
smoke-blackened walls and rafters, how the old undying sorrow comes back
to me!

Thus our evening was spent, merrily enough; then we made up the fire
with hard wood that would last all night, and went to our hammocks, but
wakeful still. The old dame, glad and proud to be on duty once more,
religiously went to work to talk me to sleep; but although I called out
at intervals to encourage her to go on, I did not attempt to follow the
ancient tales she told, which she had imbibed in childhood from other
white-headed grandmothers long, long turned to dust. My own brain was
busy thinking, thinking, thinking now of the woman I had once loved, far
away in Venezuela, waiting and weeping and sick with hope deferred;
now of Rima, wakeful and listening to the mysterious nightsounds of the
forest--listening, listening for my returning footsteps.

Next morning I began to waver in my resolution to remain absent from
Rima for some days; and before evening my passion, which I had now
ceased to struggle against, coupled with the thought that I had acted
unkindly in leaving her, that she would be a prey to anxiety, overcame
me, and I was ready to return. The old woman, who had been suspiciously
watching my movements, rushed out after me as I left the house, crying
out that a storm was brewing, that it was too late to go far, and
night would be full of danger. I waved my hand in good-bye, laughingly
reminding her that I was proof against all perils. Little she cared what
evil might befall me, I thought; but she loved not to be alone; even for
her, low down as she was intellectually, the solitary earthen pot had
no "mind stuff" in it, and could not be sent to sleep at night with the
legends of long ago.

By the time I reached the ridge, I had discovered that she had
prophesied truly, for now an ominous change had come over nature. A dull
grey vapour had overspread the entire western half of the heavens;
down, beyond the forest, the sky looked black as ink, and behind this
blackness the sun had vanished. It was too late to go back now; I had
been too long absent from Rima, and could only hope to reach Nuflo's
lodge, wet or dry, before night closed round me in the forest.

For some moments I stood still on the ridge, struck by the somewhat
weird aspect of the shadowed scene before me--the long strip of dull
uniform green, with here and there a slender palm lifting its feathery
crown above the other trees, standing motionless, in strange relief
against the advancing blackness. Then I set out once more at a run,
taking advantage of the downward slope to get well on my way before the
tempest should burst. As I approached the wood, there came a flash of
lightning, pale, but covering the whole visible sky, followed after a
long interval by a distant roll of thunder, which lasted several seconds
and ended with a succession of deep throbs. It was as if Nature herself,
in supreme anguish and abandonment, had cast herself prone on the earth,
and her great heart had throbbed audibly, shaking the world with its
beats. No more thunder followed, but the rain was coming down heavily
now in huge drops that fell straight through the gloomy, windless air.
In half a minute I was drenched to the skin; but for a short time
the rain seemed an advantage, as the brightness of the falling water
lessened the gloom, turning the air from dark to lighter grey. This
subdued rain-light did not last long: I had not been twenty minutes
in the wood before a second and greater darkness fell on the earth,
accompanied by an even more copious downpour of water. The sun had
evidently gone down, and the whole sky was now covered with one thick
cloud. Becoming more nervous as the gloom increased, I bent my steps
more to the south, so as to keep near the border and more open part of
the wood. Probably I had already grown confused before deviating and
turned the wrong way, for instead of finding the forest easier, it
grew closer and more difficult as I advanced. Before many minutes the
darkness so increased that I could no longer distinguish objects more
than five feet from my eyes. Groping blindly along, I became entangled
in a dense undergrowth, and after struggling and stumbling along for
some distance in vain endeavours to get through it, I came to a stand
at last in sheer despair. All sense of direction was now lost: I was
entombed in thick blackness--blackness of night and cloud and rain and
of dripping foliage and network of branches bound with bush ropes and
creepers in a wild tangle. I had struggled into a hollow, or hole, as
it were, in the midst of that mass of vegetation, where I could stand
upright and turn round and round without touching anything; but when I
put out my hands they came into contact with vines and bushes. To move
from that spot seemed folly; yet how dreadful to remain there standing
on the sodden earth, chilled with rain, in that awful blackness in which
the only luminous thing one could look to see would be the eyes, shining
with their own internal light, of some savage beast of prey! Yet the
danger, the intense physical discomfort, and the anguish of looking
forward to a whole night spent in that situation stung my heart less
than the thought of Rima's anxiety and of the pain I had carelessly
given by secretly leaving her.

It was then, with that pang in my heart, that I was startled by hearing,
close by, one of her own low, warbled expressions. There could be no
mistake; if the forest had been full of the sounds of animal life
and songs of melodious birds, her voice would have been instantly
distinguished from all others. How mysterious, how infinitely tender it
sounded in that awful blackness!--so musical and exquisitely modulated,
so sorrowful, yet piercing my heart with a sudden, unutterable joy.

"Rima! Rima!" I cried. "Speak again. Is it you? Come to me here."

Again that low, warbling sound, or series of sounds, seemingly from
a distance of a few yards. I was not disturbed at her not replying in
Spanish: she had always spoken it somewhat reluctantly, and only when
at my side; but when calling to me from some distance she would return
instinctively to her own mysterious language, and call to me as bird
calls to bird. I knew that she was inviting me to follow her, but I
refused to move.

"Rima," I cried again, "come to me here, for I know not where to step,
and cannot move until you are at my side and I can feel your hand."

There came no response, and after some moments, becoming alarmed, I
called to her again.

Then close by me, in a low, trembling voice, she returned: "I am here."

I put out my hand and touched something soft and wet; it was her breast,
and moving my hand higher up, I felt her hair, hanging now and streaming
with water. She was trembling, and I thought the rain had chilled her.

"Rima--poor child! How wet you are! How strange to meet you in such a
place! Tell me, dear Rima, how did you find me?"

"I was waiting--watching--all day. I saw you coming across the savannah,
and followed at a distance through the wood."

"And I had treated you so unkindly! Ah, my guardian angel, my light in
the darkness, how I hate myself for giving you pain! Tell me, sweet, did
you wish me to come back and live with you again?" She made no reply.
Then, running my fingers down her arm, I took her hand in mine. It was
hot, like the hand of one in a fever. I raised it to my lips and then
attempted to draw her to me, but she slipped down and out of my arms to
my feet. I felt her there, on her knees, with head bowed low. Stooping
and putting my arm round her body, I drew her up and held her against my
breast, and felt her heart throbbing wildly. With many endearing words I
begged her to speak to me; but her only reply was: "Come--come," as she
slipped again out of my arms and, holding my hand in hers, guided me
through the bushes.

Before long we came to an open path or glade, where the darkness was not
profound; and releasing my hand, she began walking rapidly before me,
always keeping at such a distance as just enabled me to distinguish her
grey, shadowy figure, and with frequent doublings to follow the natural
paths and openings which she knew so well. In this way we kept on nearly
to the end, without exchanging a word, and hearing no sound except the
continuous rush of rain, which to our accustomed ears had ceased to
have the effect of sound, and the various gurgling noises of innumerable
runners. All at once, as we came to a more open place, a strip of bright
firelight appeared before us, shining from the half-open door of Nuflo's
lodge. She turned round as much as to say: "Now you know where you are,"
then hurried on, leaving me to follow as best I could.

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

completion: Abel, certain that the old man has been less than honest with him, determines to learn about Rima's history from Nuflo because he knows now that the girl will not willingly reveal the whole truth. Rima, moreover, has become very aloof after their meeting at the mora tree. Nuflo disappears with his dogs for long hours during the day, and Abel is suspicious because Rima's guardian seldom returns with any sizable quantity of nuts and fruits from his expeditions. After scrambling through the woods and then falling asleep for a time, Abel finally spies Nuflo cooking an animal. One mystery, then, is easily solved: Rima, refusing to eat meat and not allowing Nuflo to kill any of the forest animals, has thereby deprived the old man of his pleasure in enjoying the taste of meat. But Nuflo, with his dogs, hunts animals and eats the meat without her knowledge. Abel suspects that Rima's sensitivity to odors and her domination of the woodland have betrayed Nuflo in his secret, but the old man is convinced that he is safe. Realizing that he can "blackmail" Nuflo into telling him about Rima's past, Abel prods the old man with questions about the girl, but the wily peasant lies his way out of the trap. He insists that Rima is not a surviving member of a lost race but that her senses have been acutely developed because of living outdoors almost all the time; he denies that the bird language is really so different. Abel does not believe Nuflo and is less sympathetic toward hima as a result of the latter's evasive behavior; he is, in fact, increasingly angry as he starts back. On the way to the hut, Abel hears Rima, but she again avoids him when he starts forward to meet her. He cannot understand her changed attitude and her continual avoidance of him. Abel is depressed when Rima finally makes her appearance inside the hut, "silent and constrained as ever." Hurt by Rima's neglect, Abel once more decides to play the same game: He will leave for a while to see if she misses him. Abel returns to the village of the Parahuari Indians but is surprised to find the site abandoned. He soon surmises from the evidence of orderly decampment that the Indians are visiting some neighbors, a usual procedure among the tribes. Abel is happy to be alone and reflects contentedly about his adventures so far, but he shortly starts to miss Rima and to regret his abrupt departure. He is disturbed in his tranquility by the appearance of Cla-cla, the old woman, who has been compelled to leave the other Indians on their trip because of her ill health. Despite her suspicions of Abel, which in turn arouse his fears about the Indians' hostility, Cla-cla accepts Abel as a companion for her miserable solitude. They sing and chat gaily, and the evening turns into a festive occasion for both to forget their sorrows. The next morning, however, Abel is so lonesome for the sight of Rima that he determines to go back to the forest without delay. Cla-cla's pleadings and the threat of an oncoming storm do not deter Abel from his decision. Escaping from the old woman, Abel hastens into the woodland, but he loses his sense of direction when the storm lessens visibility. Drenched by the driving rain, Abel is rescued by Rima, who had been waiting faithfully for him. But Rima reverts to her withdrawn attitude as soon as they come safely in sight of Nuflo's place