“No, you say something,” said Pen quietly. But there was no need, for the girl suddenly sprang up, hurriedly dashing away her tears, her eyes flashing as if she were ashamed of being seen crying; and, looking sharply from one to the other, she frowned, stamped her little foot upon the earthen floor, and pointed through the open door.
“Juan malo!” she cried, and, springing to where the knife lay, she caught it up, ran outside, and sent it flying in amongst the trees. Then coming back, she approached Pen.
“Juan malo!” she cried. “Malo—malo!”
“Mal—bad,” said Pen, smiling. “That’s Latin as well as Spanish. Si,” he continued, to the girl, “Juan mal—malo.”
The girl nodded quickly and pointed to his hand. “Navajo?” she said.
“What does that mean?” said Pen. “Knife?” And he shook his head. “No, no, no, no,” he said, and to give effect to his words he energetically struck the injured hand into its fellow-palm, and then held up the knuckles, which had begun to bleed again.
The girl smiled and nodded, and she made again to take the handkerchief from her neck to bind it up.
“No, no, no!” cried Pen, laughing and shaking his head.
The girl looked a little annoyed, and smiled again, and pointed to the provisions she had brought.
“Queso, pano,” she said. “Las uvas;” and she caught up one of the bunches of grapes, picked off a few, and placed them in Punch’s hand. Then turning quickly to the door, she stopped to look round. “Juan malo!” she cried; and the next minute she was out of sight.