So his host brought another bottle and yet another and, after some time, Vuk began to talk.
“Am I in your way living here?” he asked, his eyes looking wounded and beseeching.
“No. I like you to be here. My wife likes you to be here. We are all happy together—eh?”
“I am happy with you,” said Vuk. “I often want to say things to you, but I can’t. I am not stupid. I understand things, but—somehow—— ” His voice trailed off to a murmur. Then, clenching his fists and tightening all his body, he said with an effort: “I understand things, but I cannot speak about them. It seems as though you are all so far off that you wouldn’t grasp what I said. And I am always afraid that I might say something that would be strange to you.”
His host laughed tolerantly.
“We are all strange, eh? And what would it matter if we didn’t understand you? You must talk: it is good for every man to talk. Perhaps you are wise, and no one understands wise men.”
This comforted Vuk a little.
“Perhaps I am,” he said; “I do not know.” He paused for a moment. “Have you—have you ever noticed at night how, though it may be very silent, it is still more silent when the moon appears?”
His companion considered a moment.
“No, I don’t think I have,” he answered, shifting uneasily in his chair.