Chapter: That evening by the fire old Nuflo, lately so miserable, now happy in
his delusions, was more than usually gay and loquacious. He was like
a child who by timely submission has escaped a threatened severe
punishment. But his lightness of heart was exceeded by mine; and, with
the exception of one other yet to come, that evening now shines in
memory as the happiest my life has known. For Rima's sweet secret was
known to me; and her very ignorance of the meaning of the feeling she
experienced, which caused her to fly from me as from an enemy, only
served to make the thought of it more purely delightful.

On this occasion she did not steal away like a timid mouse to her own
apartment, as her custom was, but remained to give that one evening
a special grace, seated well away from the fire in that same shadowy
corner where I had first seen her indoors, when I had marvelled at her
altered appearance. From that corner she could see my face, with the
firelight full upon it, she herself in shadow, her eyes veiled by their
drooping lashes. Sitting there, the vivid consciousness of my happiness
was like draughts of strong, delicious wine, and its effect was like
wine, imparting such freedom to fancy, such fluency, that again and
again old Nuflo applauded, crying out that I was a poet, and begging
me to put it all into rhyme. I could not do that to please him, never
having acquired the art of improvisation--that idle trick of making
words jingle which men of Nuflo's class in my country so greatly admire;
yet it seemed to me on that evening that my feelings could be adequately
expressed only in that sublimated language used by the finest minds in
their inspired moments; and, accordingly, I fell to reciting. But not
from any modern, nor from the poets of the last century, nor even from
the greater seventeenth century. I kept to the more ancient romances
and ballads, the sweet old verse that, whether glad or sorrowful, seems
always natural and spontaneous as the song of a bird, and so simple that
even a child can understand it.

It was late that night before all the romances I remembered or cared
to recite were exhausted, and not until then did Rima come out of her
shaded corner and steal silently away to her sleeping-place.

Although I had resolved to go with them, and had set Nuflo's mind at
rest on the point, I was bent on getting the request from Rima's own
lips; and the next morning the opportunity of seeing her alone presented
itself, after old Nuflo had sneaked off with his dogs. From the moment
of his departure I kept a close watch on the house, as one watches a
bush in which a bird one wishes to see has concealed itself, and out of
which it may dart at any moment and escape unseen.

At length she came forth, and seeing me in the way, would have slipped
back into hiding; for, in spite of her boldness on the previous day, she
now seemed shyer than ever when I spoke to her.

"Rima," I said, "do you remember where we first talked together under a
tree one morning, when you spoke of your mother, telling me that she was
dead?"

"Yes."

"I am going now to that spot to wait for you. I must speak to you again
in that place about this journey to Riolama." As she kept silent, I
added: "Will you promise to come to me there?"

She shook her head, turning half away.

"Have you forgotten our compact, Rima?"

"No," she returned; and then, suddenly coming near, spoke in a low tone:
"I will go there to please you, and you must also do as I tell you."

"What do you wish, Rima?"

She came nearer still. "Listen! You must not look into my eyes, you must
not touch me with your hands."

"Sweet Rima, I must hold your hand when I speak with you."

"No, no, no," she murmured, shrinking from me; and finding that it must
be as she wished, I reluctantly agreed.

Before I had waited long, she appeared at the trysting-place, and stood
before me, as on a former occasion, on that same spot of clean yellow
sand, clasping and unclasping her fingers, troubled in mind even then.
Only now her trouble was different and greater, making her shyer and
more reticent.

"Rima, your grandfather is going to take you to Riolama. Do you wish me
to go with you?"

"Oh, do you not know that?" she returned, with a swift glance at my
face.

"How should I know?"

Her eyes wandered away restlessly. "On Ytaioa you told me a hundred
things which I did not know," she replied in a vague way, wishing,
perhaps, to imply that with so great a knowledge of geography it was
strange I did not know everything, even her most secret thoughts.

"Tell me, why must you go to Riolama?"

"You have heard. To speak to my people."

"What will you say to them? Tell me."

"What you do not understand. How tell you?"

"I understand you when you speak in Spanish."

"Oh, that is not speaking."

"Last night you spoke to your mother in Spanish. Did you not tell her
everything?"

"Oh no--not then. When I tell her everything I speak in another way, in
a low voice--not on my knees and praying. At night, and in the woods,
and when I am alone I tell her. But perhaps she does not hear me; she is
not here, but up there--so far! She never answers, but when I speak to
my people they will answer me."

Then she turned away as if there was nothing more to be said.

"Is this all I am to hear from you, Rima--these few words?" I exclaimed.
"So much did you say to your grandfather, so much to your dead mother,
but to me you say so little!"

She turned again, and with eyes cast down replied:

"He deceived me--I had to tell him that, and then to pray to mother.
But to you that do not understand, what can I say? Only that you are not
like him and all those that I knew at Voa. It is so different--and the
same. You are you, and I am I; why is it--do you know?"

"No; yes--I know, but cannot tell you. And if you find your people, what
will you do--leave me to go to them? Must I go all the way to Riolama
only to lose you?"

"Where I am, there you must be."

"Why?"

"Do I not see it there?" she returned, with a quick gesture to indicate
that it appeared in my face.

"Your sight is keen, Rima--keen as a bird's. Mine is not so keen. Let me
look once more into those beautiful wild eyes, then perhaps I shall see
in them as much as you see in mine."

"Oh no, no, not that!" she murmured in distress, drawing away from me;
then with a sudden flash of brilliant colour cried:

"Have you forgotten the compact--the promise you made me?"

Her words made me ashamed, and I could not reply. But the shame was
as nothing in strength compared to the impulse I felt to clasp her
beautiful body in my arms and cover her face with kisses. Sick with
desire, I turned away and, sitting on a root of the tree, covered my
face with my hands.

She came nearer: I could see her shadow through my fingers; then her
face and wistful, compassionate eyes.

"Forgive me, dear Rima," I said, dropping my hands again. "I have tried
so hard to please you in everything! Touch my face with your hand--only
that, and I will go to Riolama with you, and obey you in all things."

For a while she hesitated, then stepped quickly aside so that I could
not see her; but I knew that she had not left me, that she was standing
just behind me. And after waiting a moment longer I felt her fingers
touching my skin, softly, trembling over my cheek as if a soft-winged
moth had fluttered against it; then the slight aerial touch was gone,
and she, too, moth-like, had vanished from my side.

Left alone in the wood, I was not happy. That fluttering, flattering
touch of her finger-tips had been to me like spoken language, and more
eloquent than language, yet the sweet assurance it conveyed had not
given perfect satisfaction; and when I asked myself why the gladness of
the previous evening had forsaken me--why I was infected with this
new sadness when everything promised well for me, I found that it was
because my passion had greatly increased during the last few hours; even
during sleep it had been growing, and could no longer be fed by merely
dwelling in thought on the charms, moral and physical, of its object,
and by dreams of future fruition.

I concluded that it would be best for Rima's sake as well as my own to
spend a few of the days before setting out on our journey with my Indian
friends, who would be troubled at my long absence; and, accordingly,
next morning I bade good-bye to the old man, promising to return in
three or four days, and then started without seeing Rima, who had
quitted the house before her usual time. After getting free of the
woods, on casting back my eyes I caught sight of the girl standing under
an isolated tree watching me with that vague, misty, greenish appearance
she so frequently had when seen in the light shade at a short distance.

"Rima!" I cried, hurrying back to speak to her, but when I reached the
spot she had vanished; and after waiting some time, seeing and hearing
nothing to indicate that she was near me, I resumed my walk, half
thinking that my imagination had deceived me.

I found my Indian friends home again, and was not surprised to observe a
distinct change in their manner towards me. I had expected as much;
and considering that they must have known very well where and in whose
company I had been spending my time, it was not strange. Coming across
the savannah that morning I had first begun to think seriously of the
risk I was running. But this thought only served to prepare me for a new
condition of things; for now to go back and appear before Rima, and thus
prove myself to be a person not only capable of forgetting a promise
occasionally, but also of a weak, vacillating mind, was not to be
thought of for a moment.

I was received--not welcomed--quietly enough; not a question, not
a word, concerning my long absence fell from anyone; it was as if a
stranger had appeared among them, one about whom they knew nothing
and consequently regarded with suspicion, if not actual hostility. I
affected not to notice the change, and dipped my hand uninvited in the
pot to satisfy my hunger, and smoked and dozed away the sultry hours in
my hammock. Then I got my guitar and spent the rest of the day over it,
tuning it, touching the strings so softly with my finger-tips that to a
person four yards off the sound must have seemed like the murmur or
buzz of an insect's wings; and to this scarcely audible accompaniment I
murmured in an equally low tone a new song.

In the evening, when all were gathered under the roof and I had eaten
again, I took up the instrument once more, furtively watched by all
those half-closed animal eyes, and swept the strings loudly, and sang
aloud. I sang an old simple Spanish melody, to which I had put words
in their own language--a language with no words not in everyday use,
in which it is so difficult to express feelings out of and above the
common. What I had been constructing and practicing all the afternoon
sotto voce was a kind of ballad, an extremely simple tale of a poor
Indian living alone with his young family in a season of dearth; how
day after day he ranged the voiceless woods, to return each evening with
nothing but a few withered sour berries in his hand, to find his lean,
large-eyed wife still nursing the fire that cooked nothing, and his
children crying for food, showing their bones more plainly through
their skins every day; and how, without anything miraculous, anything
wonderful, happening, that barrenness passed from earth, and the garden
once more yielded them pumpkin and maize, and manioc, the wild fruits
ripened, and the birds returned, filling the forest with their cries;
and so their long hunger was satisfied, and the children grew sleek,
and played and laughed in the sunshine; and the wife, no longer brooding
over the empty pot, wove a hammock of silk grass, decorated with
blue-and-scarlet feathers of the macaw; and in that new hammock the
Indian rested long from his labours, smoking endless cigars.

When I at last concluded with a loud note of joy, a long, involuntary
suspiration in the darkening room told me that I had been listened to
with profound interest; and, although no word was spoken, though I was
still a stranger and under a cloud, it was plain that the experiment had
succeeded, and that for the present the danger was averted.

I went to my hammock and slept, but without undressing. Next morning
I missed my revolver and found that the holster containing it had been
detached from the belt. My knife had not been taken, possibly because it
was under me in the hammock while I slept. In answer to my inquiries I
was informed that Runi had BORROWED my weapon to take it with him to the
forest, where he had gone to hunt, and that he would return it to me
in the evening. I affected to take it in good part, although feeling
secretly ill at ease. Later in the day I came to the conclusion that
Runi had had it in his mind to murder me, that I had softened him by
singing that Indian story, and that by taking possession of the revolver
he showed that he now only meant to keep me a prisoner. Subsequent
events confirmed me in this suspicion. On his return he explained that
he had gone out to seek for game in the woods; and, going without
a companion, he had taken my revolver to preserve him from
dangers--meaning those of a supernatural kind; and that he had had the
misfortune to drop it among the bushes while in pursuit of some animal.
I answered hotly that he had not treated me like a friend; that if he
had asked me for the weapon it would have been lent to him; that as
he had taken it without permission he must pay me for it. After some
pondering he said that when he took it I was sleeping soundly; also,
that it would not be lost; he would take me to the place where he had
dropped it, when we could search together for it.

He was in appearance more friendly towards me now, even asking me to
repeat my last evening's song, and so we had that performance all over
again to everybody's satisfaction. But when morning came he was not
inclined to go to the woods: there was food enough in the house, and the
pistol would not be hurt by lying where it had fallen a day longer. Next
day the same excuse; still I disguised my impatience and suspicion of
him and waited, singing the ballad for the third time that evening. Then
I was conducted to a wood about a league and a half away and we hunted
for the lost pistol among the bushes, I with little hope of finding it,
while he attended to the bird voices and frequently asked me to stand or
lie still when a chance of something offered.

The result of that wasted day was a determination on my part to escape
from Runi as soon as possible, although at the risk of making a deadly
enemy of him and of being compelled to go on that long journey to
Riolama with no better weapon than a hunting-knife. I had noticed, while
appearing not to do so, that outside of the house I was followed or
watched by one or other of the Indians, so that great circumspection
was needed. On the following day I attacked my host once more about the
revolver, telling him with well-acted indignation that if not found
it must be paid for. I went so far as to give a list of the articles I
should require, including a bow and arrows, zabatana, two spears, and
other things which I need not specify, to set me up for life as a wild
man in the woods of Guayana. I was going to add a wife, but as I had
already been offered one it did not appear to be necessary. He seemed a
little taken aback at the value I set upon my weapon, and promised to go
and look for it again. Then I begged that Kua-ko, in whose sharpness of
sight I had great faith, might accompany us. He consented, and named
the next day but one for the expedition. Very well, thought I, tomorrow
their suspicion will be less, and my opportunity will come; then taking
up my rude instrument, I gave them an old Spanish song:

    Desde aquel doloroso momento;

but this kind of music had lost its charm for them, and I was asked to
give them the ballad they understood so well, in which their interest
seemed to increase with every repetition. In spite of anxiety it amused
me to see old Cla-cla regarding me fixedly with owlish eyes and lips
moving. My tale had no wonderful things in it, like hers of the olden
time, which she told only to send her hearers to sleep. Perhaps she had
discovered by now that it was the strange honey of melody which made the
coarse, common cassava bread of everyday life in my story so pleasant to
the palate. I was quite prepared to receive a proposal to give her music
and singing lessons, and to bequeath a guitar to her in my last will and
testament. For, in spite of her hoary hair and million wrinkles, she,
more than any other savage I had met with, seemed to have taken a
draught from Ponce de Leon's undiscovered fountain of eternal youth.
Poor old witch!

The following day was the sixth of my absence from Rima, and one of
intense anxiety to me, a feeling which I endeavoured to hide by playing
with the children, fighting our old comic stick fights, and by strumming
noisily on the guitar. In the afternoon, when it was hottest, and all
the men who happened to be indoors were lying in their hammocks, I asked
Kua-ko to go with me to the stream to bathe. He refused--I had counted
on that--and earnestly advised me not to bathe in the pool I was
accustomed to, as some little caribe fishes had made their appearance
there and would be sure to attack me. I laughed at his idle tale and,
taking up my cloak, swung out of the door, whistling a lively air.
He knew that I always threw my cloak over my head and shoulders as a
protection from the sun and stinging flies when coming out of the water,
and so his suspicion was not aroused, and I was not followed. The
pool was about ten minutes' walk from the house; I arrived at it with
palpitating heart, and going round to its end, where the stream was
shallow, sat down to rest for a few moments and take a few sips of cool
water dipped up in my palm. Presently I rose, crossed the stream, and
began running, keeping among the low trees near the bank until a
dry gully, which extended for some distance across the savannah, was
reached. By following its course the distance to be covered would be
considerably increased, but the shorter way would have exposed me to
sight and made it more dangerous. I had put forth too much speed at
first, and in a short time my exertions, and the hot sun, together with
my intense excitement, overcame me. I dared not hope that my flight
had not been observed; I imagined that the Indians, unencumbered by any
heavy weight, were already close behind me, and ready to launch
their deadly spears at my back. With a sob of rage and despair I fell
prostrate on my face in the dry bed of the stream, and for two or three
minutes remained thus exhausted and unmanned, my heart throbbing so
violently that my whole frame was shaken. If my enemies had come on me
then disposed to kill me, I could not have lifted a hand in defence of
my life. But minutes passed and they came not. I rose and went on, at a
fast walk now, and when the sheltering streamed ended, I stooped among
the sere dwarfed shrubs scattered about here and there on its southern
side; and now creeping and now running, with an occasional pause to
rest and look back, I at last reached the dividing ridge at its southern
extremity. The rest of the way was over comparatively easy ground,
inclining downwards; and with that glad green forest now full in sight,
and hope growing stronger every minute in my breast, my knees ceased to
tremble, and I ran on again, scarcely pausing until I had touched and
lost myself in the welcome shadows.



Ah, that return to the forest where Rima dwelt, after so anxious day,
when the declining sun shone hotly still, and the green woodland shadows
were so grateful! The coolness, the sense of security, allayed the fever
and excitement I had suffered on the open savannah; I walked leisurely,
pausing often to listen to some bird voice or to admire some rare
insect or parasitic flower shining star-like in the shade. There was a
strangely delightful sensation in me. I likened myself to a child that,
startled at something it had seen while out playing in the sun, flies
to its mother to feel her caressing hand on its cheek and forget its
tremors. And describing what I felt in that way, I was a little ashamed
and laughed at myself; nevertheless the feeling was very sweet. At that
moment Mother and Nature seemed one and the same thing. As I kept to the
more open part of the wood, on its southernmost border, the red flame
of the sinking sun was seen at intervals through the deep humid green
of the higher foliage. How every object it touched took from it a new
wonderful glory! At one spot, high up where the foliage was scanty, and
slender bush ropes and moss depended like broken cordage from a dead
limb--just there, bathing itself in that glory-giving light, I noticed
a fluttering bird, and stood still to watch its antics. Now it would
cling, head downwards, to the slender twigs, wings and tail open; then,
righting itself, it would flit from waving line to line, dropping lower
and lower; and anon soar upwards a distance of twenty feet and alight to
recommence the flitting and swaying and dropping towards the earth. It
was one of those birds that have a polished plumage, and as it moved
this way and that, flirting its feathers, they caught the beams and
shone at moments like glass or burnished metal. Suddenly another bird of
the same kind dropped down to it as if from the sky, straight and swift
as a falling stone; and the first bird sprang up to meet the comer, and
after rapidly wheeling round each other for a moment, they fled away in
company, screaming shrilly through the wood, and were instantly lost to
sight, while their jubilant cries came back fainter and fainter at each
repetition.

I envied them not their wings: at that moment earth did not seem fixed
and solid beneath me, nor I bound by gravity to it. The faint, floating
clouds, the blue infinite heaven itself, seemed not more ethereal and
free than I, or the ground I walked on. The low, stony hills on my right
hand, of which I caught occasional glimpses through the trees, looking
now blue and delicate in the level rays, were no more than the billowy
projections on the moving cloud of earth: the trees of unnumbered
kinds--great more, cecropia, and greenheart, bush and fern and suspended
lianas, and tall palms balancing their feathery foliage on slender
stems--all was but a fantastic mist embroidery covering the surface of
that floating cloud on which my feet were set, and which floated with me
near the sun.

The red evening flame had vanished from the summits of the trees, the
sun was setting, the woods in shadow, when I got to the end of my walk.
I did not approach the house on the side of the door, yet by some means
those within became aware of my presence, for out they came in a great
hurry, Rima leading the way, Nuflo behind her, waving his arms and
shouting. But as I drew near, the girl dropped behind and stood
motionless regarding me, her face pallid and showing strong excitement.
I could scarcely remove my eyes from her eloquent countenance: I seemed
to read in it relief and gladness mingled with surprise and something
like vexation. She was piqued perhaps that I had taken her by surprise,
that after much watching for me in the wood I had come through it
undetected when she was indoors.

"Happy the eyes that see you!" shouted the old man, laughing
boisterously.

"Happy are mine that look on Rima again," I answered. "I have been long
absent."

"Long--you may say so," returned Nuflo. "We had given you up. We
said that, alarmed at the thought of the journey to Riolama, you had
abandoned us."

"WE said!" exclaimed Rima, her pallid face suddenly flushing. "I spoke
differently."

"Yes, I know--I know!" he said airily, waving his hand. "You said that
he was in danger, that he was kept against his will from coming. He is
present now--let him speak."

"She was right," I said. "Ah, Nuflo, old man, you have lived long, and
got much experience, but not insight--not that inner vision that sees
further than the eyes."

"No, not that--I know what you mean," he answered. Then, tossing his
hand towards the sky, he added: "The knowledge you speak of comes from
there."

The girl had been listening with keen interest, glancing from one to the
other. "What!" she spoke suddenly, as if unable to keep silence, "do you
think, grandfather, that SHE tells me--when there is danger--when the
rain will cease--when the wind will blow--everything? Do I not ask and
listen, lying awake at night? She is always silent, like the stars."

Then, pointing to me with her finger, she finished:

"HE knows so many things! Who tells them to HIM?"

"But distinguish, Rima. You do not distinguish the great from the
little," he answered loftily. "WE know a thousand things, but they are
things that any man with a forehead can learn. The knowledge that comes
from the blue is not like that--it is more important and miraculous. Is
it not so, senor?" he ended, appealing to me.

"Is it, then, left for me to decide?" said I, addressing the girl.

But though her face was towards me, she refused to meet my look and was
silent. Silent, but not satisfied: she doubted still, and had perhaps
caught something in my tone that strengthened her doubt.

Old Nuflo understood the expression. "Look at me, Rima," he said,
drawing himself up. "I am old, and he is young--do I not know best? I
have spoken and have decided it."

Still that unconvinced expression, and her face turned expectant to me.

"Am I to decide?" I repeated.

"Who, then?" she said at last, her voice scarcely more than a murmur;
yet there was reproach in the tone, as if she had made a long speech and
I had tyrannously driven her to it.

"Thus, then, I decide," said I. "To each of us, as to every kind of
animal, even to small birds and insects, and to every kind of plant,
there is given something peculiar--a fragrance, a melody, a special
instinct, an art, a knowledge, which no other has. And to Rima has been
given this quickness of mind and power to divine distant things; it is
hers, just as swiftness and grace and changeful, brilliant colour are
the hummingbird's; therefore she need not that anyone dwelling in the
blue should instruct her."

The old man frowned and shook his head; while she, after one swift, shy
glance at my face, and with something like a smile flitting over her
delicate lips, turned and re-entered the house.

I felt convinced from that parting look that she had understood me, that
my words had in some sort given her relief; for, strong as was her faith
in the supernatural, she appeared as ready to escape from it, when a way
of escape offered, as from the limp cotton gown and constrained manner
worn in the house. The religion and cotton dress were evidently remains
of her early training at the settlement of Voa.

Old Nuflo, strange to say, had proved better than his word. Instead of
inventing new causes for delay, as I had imagined would be the case,
he now informed me that his preparations for the journey were all but
complete, that he had only waited for my return to set out.

Rima soon left us in her customary way, and then, talking by the fire,
I gave an account of my detention by the Indians and of the loss of my
revolver, which I thought very serious.

"You seem to think little of it," I said, observing that he took it very
coolly. "Yet I know not how I shall defend myself in case of an attack."

"I have no fear of an attack," he answered. "It seems to me the same
thing whether you have a revolver or many revolvers and carbines and
swords, or no revolver--no weapon at all. And for a very simple reason.
While Rima is with us, so long as we are on her business, we are
protected from above. The angels, senor, will watch over us by day and
night. What need of weapons, then, except to procure food?"

"Why should not the angels provide us with food also?" said I.

"No, no, that is a different thing," he returned. "That is a small and
low thing, a necessity common to all creatures, which all know how to
meet. You would not expect an angel to drive away a cloud of mosquitoes,
or to remove a bush-tick from your person. No, sir, you may talk of
natural gifts, and try to make Rima believe that she is what she is, and
knows what she knows, because, like a humming-bird or some plants with
a peculiar fragrance, she has been made so. It is wrong, senor, and,
pardon me for saying it, it ill becomes you to put such fables into her
head."

I answered, with a smile: "She herself seems to doubt what you believe."

"But, senor, what can you expect from an ignorant girl like Rima? She
knows nothing, or very little, and will not listen to reason. If she
would only remain quietly indoors, with her hair braided, and pray and
read her Catechism, instead of running about after flowers and birds and
butterflies and such unsubstantial things, it would be better for both
of us."

"In what way, old man?"

"Why, it is plain that if she would cultivate the acquaintance of the
people that surround her--I mean those that come to her from her sainted
mother--and are ready to do her bidding in everything, she could make
it more safe for us in this place. For example, there is Runi and his
people; why should they remain living so near us as to be a constant
danger when a pestilence of small-pox or some other fever might easily
be sent to kill them off?"

"And have you ever suggested such a thing to your grandchild?"

He looked surprised and grieved at the question. "Yes, many times,
senor," he said. "I should have been a poor Christian had I not
mentioned it. But when I speak of it she gives me a look and is gone,
and I see no more of her all day, and when I see her she refuses even to
answer me--so perverse, so foolish is she in her ignorance; for, as you
can see for yourself, she has no more sense or concern about what is
most important than some little painted fly that flits about all day
long without any object."



The next day we were early at work. Nuflo had already gathered, dried,
and conveyed to a place of concealment the greater portion of his garden
produce. He was determined to leave nothing to be taken by any wandering
party of savages that might call at the house during our absence. He had
no fear of a visit from his neighbours; they would not know, he said,
that he and Rima were out of the wood. A few large earthen pots, filled
with shelled maize, beans, and sun-dried strips of pumpkin, still
remained to be disposed of. Taking up one of these vessels and asking
me to follow with another, he started off through the wood. We went a
distance of five or six hundred yards, then made our way down a very
steep incline, close to the border of the forest on the western side.
Arrived at the bottom, we followed the bank a little further, and I then
found myself once more at the foot of the precipice over which I had
desperately thrown myself on the stormy evening after the snake had
bitten me. Nuflo, stealing silently and softly before me through the
bushes, had observed a caution and secrecy in approaching this spot
resembling that of a wise old hen when she visits her hidden nest to lay
an egg. And here was his nest, his most secret treasure-house, which he
had probably not revealed even to me without a sharp inward conflict,
notwithstanding that our fates were now linked together. The lower
portion of the bank was of rock; and in it, about ten or twelve feet
above the ground, but easily reached from below, there was a natural
cavity large enough to contain all his portable property. Here, besides
the food-stuff, he had already stored a quantity of dried tobacco leaf,
his rude weapons, cooking utensils, ropes, mats, and other objects. Two
or three more journeys were made for the remaining pots, after which
we adjusted a slab of sandstone to the opening, which was fortunately
narrow, plastered up the crevices with clay, and covered them over with
moss to hide all traces of our work.

Towards evening, after we had refreshed ourselves with a long siesta,
Nuflo brought out from some other hiding-place two sacks; one weighing
about twenty pounds and containing smoke-dried meat, also grease and gum
for lighting-purposes, and a few other small objects. This was his load;
the other sack, which was smaller and contained parched corn and raw
beans, was for me to carry.

The old man, cautious in all his movements, always acting as if
surrounded by invisible spies, delayed setting out until an hour after
dark. Then, skirting the forest on its west side, we left Ytaioa on our
right hand, and after travelling over rough, difficult ground, with only
the stars to light us, we saw the waning moon rise not long before dawn.
Our course had been a north-easterly one at first; now it was due east,
with broad, dry savannahs and patches of open forest as far as we could
see before us. It was weary walking on that first night, and weary
waiting on the first day when we sat in the shade during the long, hot
hours, persecuted by small stinging flies; but the days and nights that
succeeded were far worse, when the weather became bad with intense heat
and frequent heavy falls of rain. The one compensation I had looked for,
which would have outweighed all the extreme discomforts we suffered,
was denied me. Rima was no more to me or with me now than she had been
during those wild days in her native woods, when every bush and bole and
tangled creeper or fern frond had joined in a conspiracy to keep her
out of my sight. It is true that at intervals in the daytime she was
visible, sometimes within speaking distance, so that I could address
a few words to her, but there was no companionship, and we were fellow
travellers only like birds flying independently in the same direction,
not so widely separated but that they can occasionally hear and see each
other. The pilgrim in the desert is sometimes attended by a bird, and
the bird, with its freer motions, will often leave him a league behind
and seem lost to him, but only to return and show its form again; for
it has never lost sight nor recollection of the traveller toiling slowly
over the surface. Rima kept us company in some such wild erratic way as
that. A word, a sign from Nuflo was enough for her to know the direction
to take--the distant forest or still more distant mountain near which we
should have to pass. She would hasten on and be lost to our sight, and
when there was a forest in the way she would explore it, resting in the
shade and finding her own food; but invariably she was before us at each
resting- or camping-place.

Indian villages were seen during the journey, but only to be avoided;
and in like manner, if we caught sight of Indians travelling or camping
at a distance, we would alter our course, or conceal ourselves to escape
observation. Only on one occasion, two days after setting out, were we
compelled to speak with strangers. We were going round a hill, and all
at once came face to face with three persons travelling in an opposite
direction--two men and a woman, and, by a strange fatality, Rima at that
moment happened to be with us. We stood for some time talking to these
people, who were evidently surprised at our appearance, and wished
to learn who we were; but Nuflo, who spoke their language like one of
themselves, was too cunning to give any true answer. They, on their
side, told us that they had been to visit a relative at Chani, the name
of a river three days ahead of us, and were now returning to their own
village at Baila-baila, two days beyond Parahuari. After parting from
them Nuflo was much troubled in his mind for the rest of that day. These
people, he said, would probably rest at some Parahuari village,
where they would be sure to give a description of us, and so it might
eventually come to the knowledge of our unneighbourly neighbour Runi
that we had left Ytaioa.

Other incidents of our long and wearisome journey need not be related.
Sitting under some shady tree during the sultry hours, with Rima only
too far out of earshot, or by the nightly fire, the old man told me
little by little and with much digression, chiefly on sacred subjects,
the strange story of the girl's origin.

About seventeen years back--Nuflo had no sure method to compute time
by--when he was already verging on old age, he was one of a company
of nine men, living a kind of roving life in the very part of Guayana
through which we were now travelling; the others, much younger than
himself, were all equally offenders against the laws of Venezuela,
and fugitives from justice. Nuflo was the leader of this gang, for it
happened that he had passed a great portion of his life outside the pale
of civilization, and could talk the Indian language, and knew this part
of Guayana intimately. But according to his own account he was not in
harmony with them. They were bold, desperate men, whose evil appetites
had so far only been whetted by the crimes they had committed; while he,
with passions worn out, recalling his many bad acts, and with a vivid
conviction of the truth of all he had been taught in early life--for
Nuflo was nothing if not religious--was now grown timid and desirous
only of making his peace with Heaven. This difference of disposition
made him morose and quarrelsome with his companions; and they would, he
said, have murdered him without remorse if he had not been so useful to
them. Their favourite plan was to hang about the neighbourhood of some
small isolated settlement, keeping a watch on it, and, when most of the
male inhabitants were absent, to swoop down on it and work their will.
Now, shortly after one of these raids it happened that a woman they had
carried off, becoming a burden to them, was flung into a river to the
alligators; but when being dragged down to the waterside she cast up
her eyes, and in a loud voice cried to God to execute vengeance on
her murderers. Nuflo affirmed that he took no part in this black deed;
nevertheless, the woman's dying appeal to Heaven preyed on his mind;
he feared that it might have won a hearing, and the "person" eventually
commissioned to execute vengeance--after the usual days, of course might
act on the principle of the old proverb: Tell me whom you are with, and
I will tell you what you are--and punish the innocent (himself to
wit) along with the guilty. But while thus anxious about his spiritual
interests, he was not yet prepared to break with his companions. He
thought it best to temporize, and succeeded in persuading them that it
would be unsafe to attack another Christian settlement for some time to
come; that in the interval they might find some pleasure, if no great
credit, by turning their attention to the Indians. The infidels, he
said, were God's natural enemies and fair game to the Christian. To
make a long story short, Nuflo's Christian band, after some successful
adventures, met with a reverse which reduced their number from nine
to five. Flying from their enemies, they sought safety at Riolama, an
uninhabited place, where they found it possible to exist for some weeks
on game, which was abundant, and wild fruits.

One day at noon, while ascending a mountain at the southern extremity
of the Riolama range in order to get a view of the country beyond the
summit, Nuflo and his companions discovered a cave; and finding it
dry, without animal occupants, and with a level floor, they at once
determined to make it their dwelling-place for a season. Wood for firing
and water were to be had close by; they were also well provided with
smoked flesh of a tapir they had slaughtered a day or two before, so
that they could afford to rest for a time in so comfortable a shelter.
At a short distance from the cave they made a fire on the rock to toast
some slices of meat for their dinner; and while thus engaged all at once
one of the men uttered a cry of astonishment, and casting up his eyes
Nuflo beheld, standing near and regarding them with surprise and fear
in-her wide-open eyes, a woman of a most wonderful appearance. The one
slight garment she had on was silky and white as the snow on the summit
of some great mountain, but of the snow when the sinking sun touches and
gives it some delicate changing colour which is like fire. Her dark
hair was like a cloud from which her face looked out, and her head was
surrounded by an aureole like that of a saint in a picture, only more
beautiful. For, said Nuflo, a picture is a picture, and the other was
a reality, which is finer. Seeing her he fell on his knees and crossed
himself; and all the time her eyes, full of amazement and shining with
such a strange splendour that he could not meet them, were fixed on him
and not on the others; and he felt that she had come to save his soul,
in danger of perdition owing to his companionship with men who were at
war with God and wholly bad.

But at this moment his comrades, recovering from their astonishment,
sprang to their feet, and the heavenly woman vanished. Just behind where
she had stood, and not twelve yards from them, there was a huge chasm in
the mountain, its jagged precipitous sides clothed with thorny bushes;
the men now cried out that she had made her escape that way, and down
after her they rushed, pell-mell.

Nuflo cried out after them that they had seen a saint and that some
horrible thing would befall them if they allowed any evil thought to
enter their hearts; but they scoffed at his words, and were soon far
down out of hearing, while he, trembling with fear, remained praying
to the woman that had appeared to them and had looked with such strange
eyes at him, not to punish him for the sins of the others.

Before long the men returned, disappointed and sullen, for they had
failed in their search for the woman; and perhaps Nuflo's warning words
had made them give up the chase too soon. At all events, they seemed ill
at ease, and made up their minds to abandon the cave; in a short time
they left the place to camp that night at a considerable distance from
the mountain. But they were not satisfied: they had now recovered from
their fear, but not from the excitement of an evil passion; and finally,
after comparing notes, they came to the conclusion that they had missed
a great prize through Nuflo's cowardice; and when he reproved them they
blasphemed all the saints in the calendar and even threatened him with
violence. Fearing to remain longer in the company of such godless men,
he only waited until they slept, then rose up cautiously, helped himself
to most of the provisions, and made his escape, devoutly hoping that
after losing their guide they would all speedily perish.

Finding himself alone now and master of his own actions, Nuflo was in
terrible distress, for while his heart was in the utmost fear, it yet
urged him imperiously to go back to the mountain, to seek again for that
sacred being who had appeared to him and had been driven away by his
brutal companions. If he obeyed that inner voice, he would be saved;
if he resisted it, then there would be no hope for him, and along
with those who had cast the woman to the alligators he would be lost
eternally. Finally, on the following day, he went back, although not
without fear and trembling, and sat down on a stone just where he had
sat toasting his tapir meat on the previous day. But he waited in vain,
and at length that voice within him, which he had so far obeyed, began
urging him to descend into the valley-like chasm down which the woman
had escaped from his comrades, and to seek for her there. Accordingly
he rose and began cautiously and slowly climbing down over the broken
jagged rocks and through a dense mass of thorny bushes and creepers. At
the bottom of the chasm a clear, swift stream of water rushed with foam
and noise along its rocky bed; but before reaching it, and when it was
still twenty yards lower down, he was startled by hearing a low
moan among the bushes, and looking about for the cause, he found the
wonderful woman--his saviour, as he expressed it. She was not now
standing nor able to stand, but half reclining among the rough stones,
one foot, which she had sprained in that headlong flight down the ragged
slope, wedged immovably between the rocks; and in this painful position
she had remained a prisoner since noon on the previous day. She now
gazed on her visitor in silent consternation; while he, casting himself
prostrate on the ground, implored her forgiveness and begged to know
her will. But she made no reply; and at length, finding that she was
powerless to move, he concluded that, though a saint and one of the
beings that men worship, she was also flesh and liable to accidents
while sojourning on earth; and perhaps, he thought, that accident which
had befallen her had been specially designed by the powers above to
prove him. With great labour, and not without causing her much pain, he
succeeded in extricating her from her position; and then finding that
the injured foot was half crushed and blue and swollen, he took her
up in his arms and carried her to the stream. There, making a cup of a
broad green leaf, he offered her water, which she drank eagerly; and
he also laved her injured foot in the cold stream and bandaged it with
fresh aquatic leaves; finally he made her a soft bed of moss and dry
grass and placed her on it. That night he spent keeping watch over
her, at intervals applying fresh wet leaves to her foot as the old ones
became dry and wilted from the heat of the inflammation.

The effect of all he did was that the terror with which she regarded him
gradually wore off; and next day, when she seemed to be recovering her
strength, he proposed by signs to remove her to the cave higher up,
where she would be sheltered in case of rain. She appeared to understand
him, and allowed herself to be taken up in his arms and carried with
much labour to the top of the chasm. In the cave he made her a second
couch, and tended her assiduously. He made a fire on the floor and kept
it burning night and day, and supplied her with water to drink and fresh
leaves for her foot. There was little more that he could do. From the
choicest and fattest bits of toasted tapir flesh he offered her she
turned away with disgust. A little cassava bread soaked in water she
would take, but seemed not to like it. After a time, fearing that she
would starve, he took to hunting after wild fruits, edible bulbs and
gums, and on these small things she subsisted during the whole time of
their sojourn together in the desert.

The woman, although lamed for life, was now so far recovered as to be
able to limp about without assistance, and she spent a portion of each
day out among the rocks and trees on the mountains. Nuflo at first
feared that she would now leave him, but before long he became convinced
that she had no such intentions. And yet she was profoundly unhappy.
He was accustomed to see her seated on a rock, as if brooding over some
secret grief, her head bowed, and great tears falling from half-closed
eyes.

From the first he had conceived the idea that she was in the way of
becoming a mother at no distant date--an idea which seemed to accord
badly with the suppositions as to the nature of this heavenly being
he was privileged to minister to and so win salvation; but he was now
convinced of its truth, and he imagined that in her condition he had
discovered the cause of that sorrow and anxiety which preyed continually
on her. By means of that dumb language of signs which enabled them to
converse together a little, he made it known to her that at a great
distance from the mountains there existed a place where there were
beings like herself, women, and mothers of children, who would comfort
and tenderly care for her. When she had understood, she seemed pleased
and willing to accompany him to that distant place; and so it came to
pass that they left their rocky shelter and the mountains of Riolama far
behind. But for several days, as they slowly journeyed over the plain,
she would pause at intervals in her limping walk to gaze back on those
blue summits, shedding abundant tears.

Fortunately the village Voa, on the river of the same name, which was
the nearest Christian settlement to Riolama, whither his course was
directed, was well known to him; he had lived there in former years,
and, what was of great advantage, the inhabitants were ignorant of
his worst crimes, or, to put it in his own subtle way, of the crimes
committed by the men he had acted with. Great was the astonishment and
curiosity of the people of Voa when, after many weeks' travelling, Nuflo
arrived at last with his companion. But he was not going to tell the
truth, nor even the least particle of the truth, to a gaping crowd of
inferior persons. For these, ingenious lies; only to the priest he told
the whole story, dwelling minutely on all he had done to rescue and
protect her; all of which was approved by the holy man, whose first act
was to baptize the woman for fear that she was not a Christian. Let it
be said to Nuflo's credit that he objected to this ceremony, arguing
that she could not be a saint, with an aureole in token of her
sainthood, yet stand in need of being baptized by a priest. A priest--he
added, with a little chuckle of malicious pleasure--who was often seen
drunk, who cheated at cards, and was sometimes suspected of putting
poison on his fighting-cock's spur to make sure of the victory!
Doubtless the priest had his faults; but he was not without humanity,
and for the whole seven years of that unhappy stranger's sojourn at Voa
he did everything in his power to make her existence tolerable. Some
weeks after arriving she gave birth to a female child, and then the
priest insisted on naming it Riolama, in order, he said, to keep in
remembrance the strange story of the mother's discovery at that place.

Rima's mother could not be taught to speak either Spanish or Indian; and
when she found that the mysterious and melodious sounds that fell from
her own lips were understood by none, she ceased to utter them, and
thereafter preserved an unbroken silence among the people she lived
with. But from the presence of others she shrank, as if in disgust or
fear, excepting only Nuflo and the priest, whose kindly intentions she
appeared to understand and appreciate. So far her life in the village
was silent and sorrowful. With her child it was different; and every day
that was not wet, taking the little thing by the hand, she would limp
painfully out into the forest, and there, sitting on the ground, the two
would commune with each other by the hour in their wonderful language.

At length she began to grow perceptibly paler and feebler week by week,
day by day, until she could no longer go out into the wood, but sat or
reclined, panting for breath in the dull hot room, waiting for death
to release her. At the same time little Rima, who had always appeared
frail, as if from sympathy, now began to fade and look more shadowy,
so that it was expected she would not long survive her parent. To the
mother death came slowly, but at last it seemed so near that Nuflo and
the priest were together at her side waiting to see the end. It was then
that little Rima, who had learnt from infancy to speak in Spanish, rose
from the couch where her mother had been whispering to her, and began
with some difficulty to express what was in the dying woman's mind. Her
child, she had said, could not continue to live in that hot wet place,
but if taken away to a distance where there were mountains and a cooler
air she would survive and grow strong again.

Hearing this, old Nuflo declared that the child should not perish; that
he himself would take her away to Parahuari, a distant place where there
were mountains and dry plains and open woods; that he would watch over
her and care for her there as he had cared for her mother at Riolama.

When the substance of this speech had been made known by Rima to the
dying woman, she suddenly rose up from her couch, which she had not
risen from for many days, and stood erect on the floor, her wasted face
shining with joy. Then Nuflo knew that God's angels had come for her,
and put out his arms to save her from falling; and even while he held
her that sudden glory went out from her face, now of a dead white like
burnt-out ashes; and murmuring something soft and melodious, her spirit
passed away.

Once more Nuflo became a wanderer, now with the fragile-looking little
Rima for companion, the sacred child who had inherited the position
of his intercessor from a sacred mother. The priest, who had probably
become infected with Nuflo's superstitions, did not allow them to leave
Voa empty-handed, but gave the old man as much calico as would serve
to buy hospitality and whatsoever he might require from the Indians for
many a day to come.

At Parahuari, where they arrived safely at last, they lived for some
little time at one of the villages. But the child had an instinctive
aversion to all savages, or possibly the feeling was derived from her
mother, for it had shown itself early at Voa, where she had refused to
learn their language; and this eventually led Nuflo to go away and live
apart from them, in the forest by Ytaioa, where he made himself a
house and garden. The Indians, however, continued friendly with him and
visited him with frequency. But when Rima grew up, developing into that
mysterious woodland girl I found her, they became suspicious, and in
the end regarded her with dangerously hostile feeling. She, poor child,
detested them because they were incessantly at war with the wild animals
she loved, her companions; and having no fear of them, for she did not
know that they had it in their minds to turn their little poisonous
arrows against herself, she was constantly in the woods frustrating
them; and the animals, in league with her, seemed to understand her
note of warning and hid themselves or took to flight at the approach of
danger. At length their hatred and fear grew to such a degree that they
determined to make away with her, and one day, having matured a plan,
they went to the wood and spread themselves two and two about it. The
couples did not keep together, but moved about or remained concealed at
a distance of forty or fifty yards apart, lest she should be missed.
Two of the savages, armed with blow-pipes, were near the border of the
forest on the side nearest to the village, and one of them, observing a
motion in the foliage of a tree, ran swiftly and cautiously towards it
to try and catch a glimpse of the enemy. And he did see her no doubt, as
she was there watching both him and his companions, and blew an arrow at
her, but even while in the act of blowing it he was himself struck by
a dart that buried itself deep in his flesh just over the heart. He
ran some distance with the fatal barbed point in his flesh and met his
comrade, who had mistaken him for the girl and shot him. The wounded man
threw himself down to die, and dying related that he had fired at the
girl sitting up in a tree and that she had caught the arrow in her hand
only to hurl it instantly back with such force and precision that it
pierced his flesh just over the heart. He had seen it all with his own
eyes, and his friend who had accidentally slain him believed his story
and repeated it to the others. Rima had seen one Indian shoot the other,
and when she told her grandfather he explained to her that it was an
accident, but he guessed why the arrow had been fired.

From that day the Indians hunted no more in the wood; and at length one
day Nuflo, meeting an Indian who did not know him and with whom he had
some talk, heard the strange story of the arrow, and that the mysterious
girl who could not be shot was the offspring of an old man and a Didi
who had become enamoured of him; that, growing tired of her consort, the
Didi had returned to her river, leaving her half-human child to play her
malicious pranks in the wood.

This, then, was Nuflo's story, told not in Nuflo's manner, which was
infinitely prolix; and think not that it failed to move me--that I
failed to bless him for what he had done, in spite of his selfish
motives.

 Rima, though still shy with Abel, has changed noticeably, however, and enjoys an evening by the fire when the two men talk and sing happily. Next morning, unable to reason with Rima about the trip to Riolama, Abel tells her that their love may suffer if she is disappointed by the failure of the quest for the bird people. Rima is adamant in her plans for the journey; Abel, "sick with desire," turns away, "infected with this new sadness when everything promised well for me." In order to allay any suspicions from the Indians, Abel decides to spend a few days with them, but he notices a change in their manner toward him, and their actions cause him to think seriously of the risk he is now running. Abel is certain that the Parahuaris have suspected the truth about their guest's friendship with the "evil spirit" in the forest, but during the evening he sings to the savages a plaintive Spanish ballad which wins their admiration. Although he finds his revolver missing in the morning, Abel concludes -- and subsequent events confirm -- that Runi had originally planned to kill him but had been impressed by the song and had only "borrowed" the weapon. Upon Abel's complaint, Runi lies, saying that he has lost the revolver, but he promises to help Abel find it in the woods. Runi's procrastinations convince Abel that it would be wise to escape immediately. Constantly watched by one or more Indians, Abel finally gets away by pretending to go off to bathe in a nearby stream. Exhausted by his flight from the village, Abel at last reaches "that glad green forest" where he can seek refuge with nature -- and Rima. Abel returns to Nuflo's hut, and he recounts his close call with death at the hands of the hostile Parahuaris. Although Abel is upset by the loss of his revolver, Nuflo now has such superstitious faith in the magical powers of Rima that he does not fear any attack from the savages. Rima, of course, is oblivious to any concern with this problem because she is thinking only of her reunion with her mother's people in Riolama. During Abel's absence, all preparations for the expedition have been completed; she and Nuflo have been awaiting his return in order to start on the journey. Nuflo takes charge as the group leaves the woodland retreat. His years of experience and his natural caution prove invaluable. Nuflo leaves the forest after dark and makes the party walk at night on many occasions to avoid meeting any other travelers; he bypasses any villages where Indians may attack or betray them to other savages, and he carries a heavier load of supplies than the inexperienced Abel. The trip for Abel, in fact, becomes very arduous because of the rugged terrain and the unusually inclement weather. The compensation for the young man is Nuflo's gradual revelation of the truth about himself and Rima during the evenings after the day's march. Nuflo was one of a small band of outlaws who terrorized all the settlements, but their numbers were reduced from nine to five. They then took refuge in an uninhabited place on Riolama where they were frightened by the almost ghostly appearance and disappearance of a very attractive woman. Superstitious, and also repentant for his past crimes, Nuflo prevented the others from pursuing and capturing her. So embittered were his comrades that Nuflo was forced to run away from them. His conscience led him back to where he thought the mysterious woman had escaped. Nuflo found her injured by a fall and slowly nursed her back to health. They were able to communicate somewhat by an improvised sign language, but Nuflo was unable to understand the melodious sounds she made in her own speech. Observing that she was permanently crippled and that she was also pregnant, Nuflo took her to the nearest Christian settlement at Voa. He was safe from the police there, and the priest sheltered them. For seven years, this existence continued: Rima's mother was melancholy and sickly, and Rima was likewise in delicate health. When the mother died, Nuflo, fulfilling a deathbed promise to the woman, took Rima to the healthier climate of Parahuari. There she recovered, and he was more tranquil away from civilization -- and the authorities. The Parahuari Indians, however, became hostile toward Rima because she frustrated their hunting expeditions into the forest by warning the birds and animals in the melodious language of her lost race. Determined to kill Rima, the Indians on one occasion sent out a party to shoot her with the poisoned arrows of the zabatana, but one savage mistakenly fired at and fatally wounded one of his comrades. In the confusion of this disaster, the superstitious and bewildered Indians believed that Rima, an evil spirit, had seized the arrow in flight and had hurled it back at her assailant. Since then, the natives have avoided the woodland but have never given up their determination to destroy Rima. Abel, deeply impressed by the unusual story, is pleased to learn all the facts he has sought about Rima.

