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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are right; I must go alone."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How many things did you remember, Rima?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why did she cry, my love?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

