“She says she doesn’t understand you,” grunted Siwash.
“Ah-to-ke-nika a-it sewar.”
“She says she has a good heart.”
“Why doesn’t she speak her name?”
The girl crouched low on the hearth and spread her shapely brown fingers before the dying embers.
“Nika Le-Le. Nika caid.”
“She says her name is Le-Le, and she is a slave.”
“Your sister? and a slave?”
“I, too, was a slave,” said Siwash, “but I bought my freedom; and when I get ten horses of my own, I will buy Le-Le’s. Could you help us? Your father is good.”
“A good heart isn’t always accompanied by a full purse,” thought Jean.