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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, senor," came her gentle answer.

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

"Yes, senor."

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

"Yes, senor."

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

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

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

"Senor," said the old man, "that is a question which you must excuse my
child from answering. Not, sir, from want of will, for she is docile and
obedient, though I say it, but there is no answer beyond what I can tell
you. And this is, sir, that all creatures, whether man or bird, have the
v