With a nod of assent, the man stooped down, broke off a large leaf from an elephant’s-ear plant near by and folded it into a cup which he quickly filled with water.
Florence then lifted the boy’s head slightly and held it while Jo Ann held the improvised cup to his lips. After she had laid him down again, his eyes opened wider, and he stared blankly at the girls for a moment.
Then his gaze fell upon his mother, and he murmured faintly, “Mi—Ma-má!”
With a cry of joy, she exclaimed. “Ah, my Pepito. You have come back to me!”
“It is necessary that we be very careful,” Florence cautioned the parents. “The boy must not talk yet. After he rests longer, then he can talk.”
“Bien! Just as you say.” The tears began to flow down the father’s cheeks again as he added in a choked voice, “If it had not been for you, señoritas, my Pepito would have been buried. Carlitos and I were digging his grave when you came.”
A shudder of horror swept over both girls as they realized how narrow had been the escape from such a tragedy.
“You must not take your little boy back up on the mountain,” Florence went on. “He will be sick again, if you do.”
“Ask him to move his family down to the cave,” spoke up Jo Ann eagerly. The thought darted through her mind, “I could find out about the blue-eyed boy, then.”
“Good idea!” Florence replied, then translated her suggestion to the father.