She unharnessed herself, and took me in her arms, holding me there as a nest must hold a little bird. How comfy, how motherly her arms were. She sat down on a stump and cuddled me in her lap; and I, pushing aside her dress at the throat, kissed her where she was the prettiest.
“Why are you a halaïc?” I moaned. “Why do you have to be a donkey—you who are beautiful as a Greek nymph?”
Her face softened, her eyes became misty, and her lips quivered, yet remained wreathed in smiles. Silently she patted me, and I spoke again of the cruelty of her position.
“Well, well, yavroum, you see the old people are very poor. They have no money this month to engage a donkey, and the men on this place are too old for such hard work. I am young and strong, so I do it.”
“But why are you a halaïc?” I repeated.
She laughed. “I am not exactly a halaïc, for I am a free woman. I may go if I please—only I please to stay. The old hanoum brought me up. I love her. She is old and poor. She needs me, and I stay.”
Just then Sitanthy came out of the house, and claimed a part of the lap that I was occupying, and there we both sat for awhile. But the halaïc had much to do, and presently we were sent off to play.
I questioned Sitanthy about her.
“She will pine away some day and die,” Sitanthy said.
My eyes grew larger. “Never!” I cried. “She is immortal.”