“I will go on, then,” Sard said.
“But you are wet and have known misfortune. Enter, I pray you, and rest from your misfortune. Ay de mi, your foot has trodden unhappily.”
“Not since it has led me to your presence,” Sard said. “But thank you, I must not enter. I will go on to Miguel, to the horse.”
Something in his tone or bearing or look, something in himself, seemed to impress the woman.
“Assuredly,” she said, “the good Jesu comes thus, but must not go thus. Sit you, Sir caballero.” She brought forward a three-legged stool, the only seat in the room, and made him sit. “Sit you down till I see your foot,” she said. She would have none of his protests, but had his bandage off.
“You have met a snake,” she said.
“No; a sting-ray.”
“Then you have been in the sea and are of the ship, no doubt; ay de mi, all wet, all wet, what misery.” She felt his arm and shoulder and cold hand. “And a sting-ray; often have I seen them, with their horns. There is a negro who can cure such with a white powder; but I have nothing. Nothing but love which is a part of the love of God.”
She was kneeling at his side with his foot in her hands, kneading the swollen flesh.
“No,” she said, “this is no time for the cure. The poison has killed, but is now dead: the flesh is dead. It takes a day, two days, who knows, after a sting-ray. Then, when the life begins to return, one can help. See now, I can, by God’s mercy, do something. I have here a stirrup shoe made long ago, but still of use. I have but the one, for the other was cast out in error, as I always maintain; while others, on the contrary, think that Martin took it, Martin the pedlar, the old soldier, who comes round with saints and handkerchiefs. See now, a shoe for a count or duke.”