Ducos’s heart leapt. But he was careful to deprecate this generous attention, and to cry Adios! with the most perfect assumption of composure.
He was lying on his elbow by and by, eagerly listening, when the doorway was blocked by a shadow. The next instant Anita had sprung to and was kneeling beside him.
“Heart of my heart, have I done well? Thou art sound and whole? O, speak to me, speak to me, that I may hear thy voice and gather its forgiveness!”
For what? She was sobbing and fondling him in a very lust of entreaty.
“Thou hast done well,” he said. “So, we were seen indeed, Anita?”
“Yes,” she wept, holding his face to her bosom. “And, O! I agonize for thee to be up and away, Eugenio, for I fear.”
“Hush! I am strong. Help me to my legs, child. So! Now, come with me outside, and point out, if thou canst, where lies the Little Hump.”
She was his devoted crutch at once. They stood in the sunlight, looking down upon the hills which fell from beneath their feet—a world of tossed and petrified rapids. At their backs, on a shallow plateau under eaves of rock, Cangrejo’s eyrie clung to the mountain-side.
“There,” said the goatherd, indicating with her finger, “that mound above the valley—that little hill, fat-necked like a great mushroom, which sprouts from its basin among the trees?”
“Wait! mine eyes are dazzled.”