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.

 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.

