The rout of children descended on her, each clamoring a story of the accident. But without a word she marshaled them and turned once again toward the river to refill the hides. At the water's edge she kept her eyes resolutely from the broad dimpling breast of the Nile toward the south. She feared that she might see the light bari that was driving back to Memphis against that slow but mighty current as easily as if wind and water went with it.
But even before she turned again toward Masaarah, her better nature began to chide her. She remembered her impetuous act with a flush of shame.
"His peace-offering—a proof of his good will, and thou didst mistreat it, as if he had meant it for a purchase or a fee. The indignity thou hast petulantly fancied, Rachel."
After a time another thought came to her.
"The act was not womanly. Wherein hast thou rebuked him, in casting away the trinket? Thou hast the dignity of Israel to uphold in thy dealings with this young man."
When she reached the spot where the collar had fallen, she sought for it furtively, and having found it, thrust it into the bosom of her dress.
"I shall not keep it," she said, quieting the protests of her pride.
"I shall make him take it back to-morrow."
Entering her low shelter in the camp some time later, she found Deborah absent. Impelled by an unreasoning desire to keep secret this event, she hastily hid the collar in the sand of the tent floor and laid the straw matting of her bed smoothly over its burial place. Again she struggled with her pride and demanded of herself why she had become secretive.
"Fie!" she replied. "How couldst thou tell this story to Deborah?
Why, it is well-nigh unbecoming."
The dusk settled down over the valley. Deborah came in like a phantom from the camp-fires with the evening meal, and the pair sat down together to eat, Rachel silent, Deborah thoughtful.