“Hush, hush,” said Maria, “not a word against her. If he is dying—what may her fate have been?”
“God forgive me, I was wrong—but there is a sight up yonder, Maria, that would draw tears from marble. But, Zana, where is she?”
“Has he spoken of it? Has he inquired?” asked Maria, quickly.
“He asked only one question—if she was found, nothing more.”
“And you spoke of Zana?”
“No, of what use would it be? I have no right to torture him with bare suspicions; but the girl—let him see her—if his heart does not speak then, we never must.”
“She will not refuse—you always judge rightly,” was Maria’s mild rejoinder. “Must I go with her?”
“No, let her come alone. Go, tell her.”
I came forward and put my arm through that of the old man. He drew back, held me at a distance with both hands, and pondered over every feature of my face, as if his life had depended on perusing them correctly. At last he drew me gently toward him, and smoothed my hair with his palms.
“Zana,” he said, “you are a woman now—be firm and still; whatever you see, do not give way.”