with the return of consciousness, i at first had a vague impression that i was lying somewhere, injured, and incapable of motion; that it was night, and necessary for me to keep my eyes fast shut to prevent them from being blinded by almost continuous vivid flashes of lightning. injured, and sore all over, but warm and dry — surely dry; nor was it lightning that dazzled, but firelight. i began to notice things little by little. the fire was burning on a clay floor a few feet from where i was lying. before it, on a log of wood, sat or crouched a human figure. an old man, with chin on breast and hands clasped before his drawn-up knees; only a small portion of his forehead and nose visible to me. an indian i took him to be, from his coarse, lank, grey hair and dark brown skin. i was in a large hut, falling at the sides to within two feet of the floor; but there were no hammocks in it, nor bows and spears, and no skins, not even under me, for i was lying on straw mats. i could hear the storm still raging outside; the rush and splash of rain, and, at intervals, the distant growl of thunder. there was wind, too; i listened to it sobbing in the trees, and occasionally a puff found its way in, and blew up the white ashes at the old man’s feet, and shook the yellow flames like a flag. i remembered now how the storm began, the wild girl, the snake-bite, my violent efforts to find a way out of the woods, and, finally, that leap from the bank where recollection ended. that i had not been killed by the venomous tooth, nor the subsequent fearful fall, seemed like a miracle to me. and in that wild, solitary place, lying insensible, in that awful storm and darkness, i had been found by a fellow creature — a savage, doubtless, but a good samaritan all the same — who had rescued me from death! i was bruised all over and did not attempt to move, fearing the pain it would give me; and i had a racking headache; but these seemed trifling discomforts after such adventures and such perils. i felt that i had recovered or was recovering from that venomous bite; that i would live and not die — live to return to my country; and the thought filled my heart to overflowing, and tears of gratitude and happiness rose to my eyes.
at such times a man experiences benevolent feelings, and would willingly bestow some of that overplus of happiness on his fellows to lighten other hearts; and this old man before me, who was probably the instrument of my salvation, began greatly to excite my interest and compassion. for he seemed so poor in his old age and rags, so solitary and dejected as he sat there with knees drawn up, his great, brown, bare feet looking almost black by contrast with the white wood-ashes about them! what could i do for him? what could i say to cheer his spirits in that indian language, which has few or no words to express kindly feelings? unable to think of anything better to say, i at length suddenly cried aloud: “smoke, old man! why do you not smoke? it is good to smoke.”
he gave a mighty start and, turning, fixed his eyes on me. then i saw that he was not a pure indian, for although as brown as old leather, he wore a beard and moustache. a curious face had this old man, which looked as if youth and age had made it a battling-ground. his forehead was smooth except for two parallel lines in the middle running its entire length, dividing it in zones; his arched eyebrows were black as ink, and his small black eyes were bright and cunning, like the eyes of some wild carnivorous animal. in this part of his face youth had held its own, especially in the eyes, which looked young and lively. but lower down age had conquered, scribbling his skin all over with wrinkles, while moustache and beard were white as thistledown. “aha, the dead man is alive again!” he exclaimed, with a chuckling laugh. this in the indian tongue; then in spanish he added: “but speak to me in the language you know best, senor; for if you are not a venezuelan call me an owl.”
“and you, old man?” said i.
“ah, i was right! why sir what i am is plainly written on my face.
surely you do not take me for a pagan! i might be a black man from africa, or an englishman, but an indian — that, no! but a minute ago you had the goodness to invite me to smoke. how, sir, can a poor man smoke who is without tobacco?”
“without tobacco — in guayana!”
“can you believe it? but, sir, do not blame me; if the beast that came one night and destroyed my plants when ripe for cutting had taken pumpkins and sweet potatoes instead, it would have been better for him, if curses have any effect. and the plant grows slowly, sir — it is not an evil weed to come to maturity in a single day. and as for other leaves in the forest, i smoke them, yes; but there is no comfort to the lungs in such smoke.”
“my tobacco-pouch was full,” i said. “you will find it in my coat, if i did not lose it.”
“the saints forbid!” he exclaimed. “grandchild — rima, have you got a tobacco-pouch with the other things? give it to me.”
then i first noticed that another person was in the hut, a slim young girl, who had been seated against the wall on the other side of the fire, partially hid by the shadows. she had my leather belt, with the revolver in its case, and my hunting-knife attached, and the few articles i had had in my pockets, on her lap. taking up the pouch, she handed it to him, and he clutched it with a strange eagerness.
“i will give it back presently, rima,” he said. “let me first smoke a cigarette — and then another.”
it seemed probable from this that the good old man had already been casting covetous eyes on my property, and that his granddaughter had taken care of it for me. but how the silent, demure girl had kept it from him was a puzzle, so intensely did he seem now to enjoy it, drawing the smoke vigorously into his lungs and, after keeping it ten or fifteen seconds there, letting it fly out again from mouth and nose in blue jets and clouds. his face softened visibly, he became more and more genial and loquacious, and asked me how i came to be in that solitary place. i told him that i was staying with the indian runi, his neighbour.
“but, senor,” he said, “if it is not an impertinence, how is it that a young man of so distinguished an appearance as yourself, a venezuelan, should be residing with these children of the devil?”
“you love not your neighbours, then?”
“i know them, sir — how should i love them?” he was rolling up his second or third cigarette by this time, and i could not held noticing that he took a great deal more tobacco than he required in his fingers, and that the surplus on each occasion was conveyed to some secret receptacle among his rags. “love them, sir! they are infidels, and therefore the good christian must only hate them. they are thieves — they will steal from you before your very face, so devoid are they of all shame. and also murderers; gladly would they burn this poor thatch above my head, and kill me and my poor grandchild, who shares this solitary life with me, if they had the courage. but they are all arrant cowards, and fear to approach me — fear even to come into this wood. you would laugh to hear what they are afraid of — a child would laugh to hear it!”
“what do they fear?” i said, for his words had excited my interest in a great degree.
“why, sir, would you believe it? they fear this child — my granddaughter, seated there before you. a poor innocent girl of seventeen summers, a christian who knows her catechism, and would not harm the smallest thing that god has made — no, not a fly, which is not regarded on account of its smallness. why, sir, it is due to her tender heart that you are safely sheltered here, instead of being left out of doors in this tempestuous night.”
“to her — to this girl?” i returned in astonishment. “explain, old man, for i do not know how i was saved.”
“today, senor, through your own heedlessness you were bitten by a venomous snake.”
“yes, that is true, although i do not know how it came to your knowledge. but why am i not a dead man, then — have you done something to save me from the effects of the poison?”
“nothing. what could i do so long after you were bitten? when a man is bitten by a snake in a solitary place he is in god’s hands. he will live or die as god wills. there is nothing to be done. but surely, sir, you remember that my poor grandchild was with you in the wood when the snake bit you?”
“a girl was there — a strange girl i have seen and heard before when i have walked in the forest. but not this girl — surely not this girl!”
“no other,” said he, carefully rolling up another cigarette.
“it is not possible!” i returned.
“ill would you have fared, sir, had she not been there. for after being bitten, you rushed away into the thickest part of the wood, and went about in a circle like a demented person for heaven knows how long. but she never left you; she was always close to you — you might have touched her with your hand. and at last some good angel who was watching you, in order to stop your career, made you mad altogether and caused you to jump over a precipice and lose your senses. and you were no sooner on the ground than she was with you — ask me not how she got down! and when she had propped you up against the bank, she came for me. fortunately the spot where you had fallen is near — not five hundred yards from the door. and i, on my part, was willing to assist her in saving you; for i knew it was no indian that had fallen, since she loves not that breed, and they come not here. it was not an easy task, for you weigh, senor; but between us we brought you in.”
while he spoke, the girl continued sitting in the same listless attitude as when i first observed her, with eyes cast down and hands folded in her lap. recalling that brilliant being in the wood that had protected the serpent from me and calmed its rage, i found it hard to believe his words, and still felt a little incredulous.
“rime — that is your name, is it not?” i said. “will you come here and stand before me, and let me look closely at you?”
“si, senor.” she meekly answered; and removing the things from her lap, she stood up; then, passing behind the old man, came and stood before me, her eyes still bent on the ground — a picture of humility.
she had the figure of the forest girl, but wore now a scanty faded cotton garment, while the loose cloud of hair was confined in two plaits and hung down her back. the face also showed the same delicate lines, but of the brilliant animation and variable colour and expression there appeared no trace. gazing at her countenance as she stood there silent, shy, and spiritless before me, the image of her brighter self came vividly to my mind and i could not recover from the astonishment i felt at such a contrast.
have you ever observed a humming-bird moving about in an aerial dance among the flowers — a living prismatic gem that changes its colour with every change of position — how in turning it catches the sunshine on its burnished neck and gorges plumes — green and gold and flame-coloured, the beams changing to visible flakes as they fall, dissolving into nothing, to be succeeded by others and yet others? in its exquisite form, its changeful splendour, its swift motions and intervals of aerial suspension, it is a creature of such fairy-like loveliness as to mock all description. and have you seen this same fairy-like creature suddenly perch itself on a twig, in the shade, its misty wings and fan-like tail folded, the iridescent glory vanished, looking like some common dull-plumaged little bird sitting listless in a cage? just so great was the difference in the girl as i had seen her in the forest and as she now appeared under the smoky roof in the firelight.
after watching her for some moments, i spoke: “rime, there must be a good deal of strength in that frame of yours, which looks so delicate; will you raise me up a little?”
she went down on one knee and, placing her arms round me, assisted me to a sitting posture.
“thank you, rima — oh, misery!” i groaned. “is there a bone left unbroken in my poor body?”
“nothing broken,” cried the old man, clouds of smoke flying out with his words. “i have examined you well — legs, arms, ribs. for this is how it was, senor. a thorny bush into which you fell saved you from being flattened on the stony ground. but you are bruised, sir, black with bruises; and there are more scratches of thorns on your skin than letters on a written page.”
“a long thorn might have entered my brain,” i said, “from the way it pains. feel my forehead, rima; is it very hot and dry?”
she did as i asked, touching me lightly with her little cool hand. “no, senor, not hot, but warm and moist,” she said.
“thank heaven for that!” i said. “poor girl! and you followed me through the wood in all that terrible storm! ah, if i could lift my bruised arm i would take your hand to kiss it in gratitude for so great a service. i owe you my life, sweet rima — what shall i do to repay so great a debt?”
the old man chuckled as if amused, but the girl lifted not her eyes nor spoke.
“tell me, sweet child,” i said, “for i cannot realize it yet; was it really you that saved the serpent’s life when i would have killed it — did you stand by me in the wood with the serpent lying at your feet?”
“yes, senor,” came her gentle answer.
“and it was you i saw in the wood one day, lying on the ground playing with a small bird?”
“yes, senor.”
“and it was you that followed me so often among the trees, calling to me, yet always hiding so that i could never see you?”
“yes, senor.”
“oh, this is wonderful!” i exclaimed; whereat the old man chuckled again.
“but tell me this, my sweet girl,” i continued. “you never addressed me in spanish; what strange musical language was it you spoke to me in?”
she shot a timid glance at my face and looked troubled at the question, but made no reply.
“senor,” said the old man, “that is a question which you must excuse my child from answering. not, sir, from want of will, for she is docile and obedient, though i say it, but there is no answer beyond what i can tell you. and this is, sir, that all creatures, whether man or bird, have the voice that god has given them; and in some the voice is musical and in others not so.”
“very well, old man,” said i to myself; “there let the matter rest for the present. but if i am destined to live and not die, i shall not long remain satisfied with your too simple explanation.”
“rima,” i said, “you must be fatigued; it is thoughtless of me to keep you standing here so long.”
her face brightened a little, and bending down, she replied in a low voice: “i am not fatigued, sir. let me get you something to eat now.”
she moved quickly away to the fire, and presently returned with an earthenware dish of roasted pumpkin and sweet potatoes and, kneeling at my side, fed me deftly with a small wooden spoon. i did not feel grieved at the absence of meat and the stinging condiments the indians love, nor did i even remark that there was no salt in the vegetables, so much was i taken up with watching her beautiful delicate face while she ministered to me. the exquisite fragrance of her breath was more to me than the most delicious viands could have been; and it was a delight each time she raised the spoon to my mouth to catch a momentary glimpse of her eyes, which now looked dark as wine when we lift the glass to see the ruby gleam of light within the purple. but she never for a moment laid aside the silent, meek, constrained manner; and when i remembered her bursting out in her brilliant wrath on me, pouring forth that torrent of stinging invective in her mysterious language, i was lost in wonder and admiration at the change in her, and at her double personality. having satisfied my wants, she moved quietly away and, raising a straw mat, disappeared behind it into her own sleeping-apartment, which was divided off by a partition from the room i was in.
the old man’s sleeping-place was a wooden cot or stand on the opposite side of the room, but he was in no hurry to sleep, and after rima had left us, put a fresh log on the blaze and lit another cigarette. heaven knows how many he had smoked by this time. he became very talkative and called to his side his two dogs, which i had not noticed in the room before, for me to see. it amused me to hear their names — susio and goloso: dirty and greedy. they were surly-looking brutes, with rough yellow hair, and did not win my heart, but according to his account they possessed all the usual canine virtues; and he was still holding forth on the subject when i fell asleep.