As I had not yet even stepped within Benè-agâ’s cave, these words of the blind hermit caused a strange feeling, half of fear, half of dread fascination, to creep over me.
My heart throbbed violently.
His ear, far keener than birds’ or beasts’, caught the sound.
“Fear not, little one!” said he, in deep, rich tones, full and swelling like the voice of organ pipes, “if thou canst content thyself with a handful of berries when thou art hungry, with a draught from the neighboring rill when thou art thirsty; if thy young limbs are sturdy enough to wrest repose from a rocky couch, then art thou welcome! If not, go thy way! For twenty years I’ve been busy with a certain problem, and have no time to stop and spread a more bountiful repast!”
“But season thy frugal fare with thy wisdom, great master,” I returned, “and it will be sweeter to my palate than stall-fed ox and mellow wine.”
“Come somewhat nearer, little traveler, so that I may see thee better!” spake the blind hermit, kindly and gently.
I did not wait for further summons, but stepped boldly into Benè-agâ’s cave.
It was, in truth, little more than a lofty cleft in the rocks, with several deeper recesses, in which the shadows lay undisturbed. Its roof of jagged, broken and blackened masses of stone, was arched and lofty. In and about it, flocks of small swallow-like birds nested, and at times broke out in musical twitterings. Barren, gloomy and utterly forlorn as the place was, without chair, mat, bed or blanket, every thought of its awful loneliness and abject surroundings vanished from my mind, as I fixed my eyes upon its occupant.
As I had stepped within the limit of Benè-agâ’s cave, he had slowly risen from his bench of stone, and now stood erect before me. Of powerful build, tall and majestic, with long snow-white hair and snowy beard, he towered like a statue of Parian marble in the dim twilight, to which now, however, my eyes had become accustomed.
I gazed upon him, half in fear, half in delight.