The Knight looked affectionately at the child, and, approaching her, placed his hand upon the raven hair that fell low upon the shoulders, and, caressing the bent head, said gently:
"Good little Neebin! Has she learned all about the pretty pictures?"
The girl turned up to him her bright eyes, and, in better English than that commonly used by the Indians, and even with a pronunciation that approached correctness, replied:
"No—Neebin knows very little now, but the lady says the book will talk to her by and by."
It was one of those illuminated missals on which, for want of other occupation, and sometimes with a feeling of superstitious piety, the monks spent incredible pains, and often a capricious and wonderful ingenuity, which the half-reclaimed little savage was looking at. As if unable to satisfy her curiosity fast enough, she turned the leaves over with childish impatience, uttering now and then a cry of delight as she beheld the figure of a bird or of a quadruped, while her eyes would sadden as they fell upon the mournful face of the crucified Saviour, whose image was delineated in several parts of the book.
"She knows all her letters," said Sister Celestina, whose true character as a Catholic and a nun the reader has long ago divined "and I permit her, as a reward, to look at the missal whenever she has been diligent."
"Your task is something like taming a young hawk," said the Knight.
"Neebin is not a hawk!" exclaimed the child. "Hawks do not wear clothes, nor yellow chains, nor can they say Pater noster and Ave Maria."
"No," said the lady; "nor have they a soul to be saved, like Neebin."
"What is a soul?" inquired the girl.