CHAPTER XIII. That evening by the fire, old New Flo, 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 of my life as known. Mareema's sweet secret was known to me, and her very ignorance of the meaning of the feelings 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. And I had marveled at her altered appearance. From that corner she could see my face, with a 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 drafts 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 the 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 Rialama. As she kept silent, I added, will you promise to come to me there? She shook her head, turning half away.  No. She returned, and then, suddenly coming near, spoken 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 tristing-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 Rialama. 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 Itaewa 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 Rialama? You have heard, to speak to my people. What will you say to them? Tell me. What do you do not understand? How tell you? I understand you when you speak in Spanish. Oh, that is not speaking.  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.   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 Rialama, 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. You murmured in distress, drawing away from me. Then with a sudden flash of brilliant color 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.  She came nearer.  Forgive me, dear Rima, I said, dropping my hands again. I've tried so hard to please you in everything.   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 fingertips 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 her journey with my Indian friends, who would be troubled at my long absence. And accordingly, next morning I begged goodbye 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 any one. 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 effected 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 string so softly with my fingertips that to a person four yards off the sound must have seen 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 Sotovoche 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, nothing 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 makka, and in that new hammock the Indian rested long from his labors, smoking endless cigars. When I at last concluded with a loud note of joy, a long, involuntary suspicion 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 Rooney 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 Rooney had had it in his mind to murder me, that I had softened him by singing that Indian's 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 Rooney 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 Rialama 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, sabbatana, two spears, and other things which I need not specify, to set me up for life as a wild man in the woods of Guyana. 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 Kuwako, 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, to-morrow their suspicion will be less, and my opportunity will come. Then taking up my rude instrument I gave them an old Spanish song, Deste Akel 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 interests seemed to increase with every repetition. In spite of anxiety it amused me to see O'Clockla 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 draft from Ponce de Lyon'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 endeavored 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 Cua-co 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 caribay 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, when the stream was shallow, sat down to rest for a few moments and took 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 savanna, 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.  But minutes passed, and they came not. I rose and went on, at a fast walk now, and when the sheltering stream ended, I stooped among the seared, 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. Lebervox Recording This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Green Mansions by W. H. Hudson, Chapter 14. Ah, that return to the forest where remage welts after so anxious a 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 savanna. 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 a non-sore upwards a distance of twenty feet, and a light to recommence the flitting in 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 it 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 cumber, 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 moray, sycropia, and greenheart, bush and fern and suspended Leonis, 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, new flow 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 peaked, 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 new flow. We had given you up. We said that, alarmed at the thought of the journey to Rialama, 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, new flow, 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 toward 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 added, appealing to me. It is then left for me to decide, said I, addressing the girl.  Silent but not satisfied. She doubted still, and had perhaps caught something in my tone that strengthened her doubt. Old New Flo 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 decided it. Still that unconvinced expression in 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 empowered to divine distant things. It is hers, just as swiftness and grace and changeful brilliant color are the hummingbirds. Therefore she need not that any one 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 as 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 her mains of her early training at the settlement of Voa. Old new flow, 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 seemed 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 hummingbird 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.  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 and everything. She could make it more safe for us in this place. For example, there is Rooney and his people. Why should they remain living so near us as to be a constant danger, when a pestilence of smallpox or some other fever might easily be sent to kill them off? And have you ever suggested such a thing to your grandchild? He looks 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.  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. CHAPTER XV The next day we were early at work. Newflow 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 neighbors. They would not know, he said, that he and Remo 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. Newflow, 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, not with the standing 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, Newflow brought out from some other hiding-place two sacks, one weighing about twenty pounds and containing smoked 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 Itaewa 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 northeasterly one at first, now it was due east, with broad, dry savannas 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 bowl and tangled creeper or fern-fraund 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-travelers 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 leak behind and seem lost to him, but only to return and show its form again, for it is 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 bird, assigned from New Flo, 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 New Flo, 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 Parahawari. After parting from them, New Flo was much troubled in his mind for the rest of that day. These people, he said, would probably rest at some Parahawari village, where they would be sure to give a description of us, and so it might eventually come to the knowledge of our unneighborly neighbor, Rooney, that we had left Itaewa. Other incidents of our long and worrisome 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, New Flo 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 Guyana through which we were now traveling. The others, much younger than himself, were all equally offenders against the laws of Venezuela and fugitives from justice. New Flo 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 Guyana 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 wedded 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 New Flo 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 favorite plan was to hang about the neighborhood 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 that 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. New Flo affirmed that he took no part in this black deed. Nevertheless the woman's dying appeal to heaven prayed 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, New Flo'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 Rialama, 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 Rialama Range, in order to get a view of the country beyond the summit, New Flo and his companions discovered a cave, and finding it dry, without animal occupants, and with a level floor, they had 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 tapper 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, New Flo 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 color, which is like fire. Her dark hair was like a cloud from which her face looked out, and her head was surrounded by an areole like that of a saint in a picture, only more beautiful. Four said New Flo, 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 splendor 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. New Flo 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 New Flo'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 New Flo'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, to withoutly hoping that after losing their guide they would all speedily perish. Finding himself alone now, a master of his own actions, New Flo was in terrible distress. For while his heart was in the atmosphere, it yet urged him imperiously to go back to the mountain, to seek again for that sacred being who had appeared to him, and 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 the stone just where he had sat toasting his tap your meat on the previous day. But he waited in vain, and it linked 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 he had sprained in that headlong flight down the ragged slope wedged him movably 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 loved 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, but intervals supplying 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 labor 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 she 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 leamed 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. Newflu 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 prayed 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 Rialama 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 Rialama, wither 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 oriole 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-cocks-bur 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 Rialama, 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, accepting only Newflow 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 that she would not long survive her parent. To the mother death came slowly, but at last it seems so near that Newflow 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 have taken away to a distance where there were mountains and a cooler air, she would survive and grow strong again. Hearing this, Old Newflow declared that the child should not perish, that he himself would take her away to Aperahuari, 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 Rialama. 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 Newflow 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 Newflow became a wanderer, now with the fragile-looking little Rima for companion, the sacred child who had inherited the portion of his intercessor from a sacred mother. The priest, who had probably become infected with Newflow'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 Perahuari, 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 Newflow to go away and live apart from them in the forest by Itaewa, 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 the 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 to and to 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 his heart. He ran some distance with a 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 above 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 deedie who had become enamored of him. That, growing tired of her consort, the deedie 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. CHAPTER XVI We were eighteen days traveling to Rialama, and 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 anteater, so that we were well supplied with excellent strength-giving flesh. We were among the Rialama 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's finx 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 his 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, causing 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.  Here he paused, and turning in 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 mountainside 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 Rimo, 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 along 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 new flow 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.  Poor 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, new flow had got his fire well alight, and was heaping on wood in a most lavish way. No fear of burning our house down to-night! 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 fire-light 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 the sitting posture close to the fire. I rose and hurried out, drawing my 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 did 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, 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 Rialama, is a mirage, a delusion, which will lead to destruction if you will not abandon it.'  "'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, Rialama? 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 Itaewa. Ah, you have wrapped yourself in a stolen cloak. Only you have left your old great 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 Newflow, after we had been together on Itaewa, 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.  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 in the sweet light that shines on us forever. 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.  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 Rialama? 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 leave 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 mothers 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 at 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 New Flo 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 New Flo'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, Reema. It is very sad, so sad that it is hard to tell it. When New Flo 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 New Flo, she readily consented, and painfully performed that long journey to Voa. Would you, Reema, 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 numbers, 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.  In a little while the sob 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, and of Chapter 17 of Green Mansions. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Green Mansions by W. H. Hudson, Chapter 17 As I re-entered the cave with my burden, new flows 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.  But the water failed to restore her, and my anxiety deepened as I gazed on that white, still face.  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.  I exclaimed, thrusting him roughly aside, and lifting her up with the cloak beneath her.  Rima! Grandchild! he prayed, his quivering voice betraying his agitation. Do not die just yet. You must not die, not only 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, the 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 favor, have only to say half a word to get it. And do not cast an oblivion that at the last I obeyed your wish and brought you safely to Rialama.  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 colors, 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 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 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 color 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 fingertips on her heart, and felt, or imagine 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 earthly 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, sureer 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 color was now visible. And at length, seeing that all danger was passed and recovery so slow, old new flow withdrew once more to the fire side, 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 gray 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 Quineveta mountains, I came on a single white flower which was new to me, which I had 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 luster 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 luster 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 transcending 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 Hatha, also that they had a superstition concerning it, a strange belief. They said that only one Hatha 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 Hatha 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 Hatha 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 forever, 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 new flow and his two yellow dogs stretched out on the floor in eternal, unwakening sleep. The 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 color, which had scarcely been more than a suspicion of color, 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 in 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 elusive color thrown on her skin by the red firelight?  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 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 in hesitation. Our bliss and 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 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 of prophesied would ever really come. That is why you wished to find your people, and came to Rialama 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 forever, 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 Rialama? I would come. I made him come. Oh, grandfather, sleeping there. He does not count.  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.  I had chased the false water on the savanna. 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, I do not.  That is only a hundred, a thousand or 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?  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.  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, but 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 in 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 mirrored 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 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 new flow in 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 me 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 around the dim, fire-lit 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 too. 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. Oh, Abel, was that the something you told me about on the mountain? And the other was lost forever, 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, oh, sweet mother, when you sat still and cried, while I ran about and played and laughed.  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.  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? Oh, Abel, do you remember that night, after returning from Itaewa, 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 be 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 Oronoko, 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.  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 seem 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. Oh, 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! Oh, 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 mountaintops, when the sun is setting, and gives it rose and purple color. 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 in 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 in 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 bush-grown 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.


So a useful thing to remember in math and in life is to try the easy things first. So if we want to reduce and simplify this expression, we might begin by noticing that in our numerator, we can remove a common factor of 4. So factoring the numerator gives us... Next, you might notice that z squared minus 49 is a difference of squares. And since z squared minus 49 is a difference of squares, it's easy to factor as... Now if we sit and stare at our factors, we see that these two are almost the same. One of them is 7 minus z, and the other one is z minus 7. Yet almost think they could be related. Well, in fact, they are related. Remember that for any real numbers or variables representing real numbers, a minus b is the same as the additive inverse of b minus a. So we could reverse either 7 minus z or z minus 7, but because we like to have our variables first, let's reverse the subtraction in the numerator, and so we'll get z minus 7 and another negative. So remember, we can only remove a common factor when both numerator and denominator are products. So it's good to check. The numerator is minus 4 times z minus 7. The denominator is z minus 7 times z plus 7. And since they're both products, we can remove the common factor and get our final answer. So rather than trying to type this in and get all of the parentheses located in the correct place, let's go ahead and pull up our math formatting window. Remember that'll appear when we click inside the answer box, then click on this yellow up arrow. We're trying to enter in a fraction, so let's use this fraction bar. We'll type in the numerator, type in the denominator, save enters. The preview shows that what we've entered is what we wanted to enter, and so now we can click on Submit.