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
seeingher 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.
"Rime, 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