“It would have been fully as easy for the good God to give you club feet,” she reminded them, “and it is through no merit of yours that this was not ordained. If a foot is good to walk on, that is all we should ask of it.”
The Sister walked away up the allée. Stephanie, shrugging her shoulders, pointed at the footprint she left on the white sand.
“But regard!” she murmured. “It is well for the Sister to speak; her foot was considered the most beautiful in Paris, my mother has told me so.”
Honor was glad Stephanie could not see her foot now; the next moment she forgot all about it.
The broad window looked out upon the green in front of the châlet, a shelf, as it were, of the mountain, which fell steeply away below it, and rose no less steeply behind. There was just room for the buildings (the châlet, the cowhouse and various small outbuildings), and for this pleasant green space. The grass was short and close as turf, though no lawn mower had ever touched it. The goats attended to that; here they were now, nibbling busily away, as if they had no time to spare. In the middle of the green sat Zitli, on a low stool, milking one of the she-goats. His crutch lay on the grass beside him; he was whistling gayly, and looked bright as the morning. Presently Honor, watching, saw him give a quick little glance over his shoulder, and then very quietly take a crutch in one hand, while he went on milking with the other. Following his glance, Honor was aware of Bimbo, standing a few paces in the rear of Zitli, his beautiful head thrown back, his eyes measuring the distance between him and the boy. Now he cast a wary glance around him; nibbled grass for a moment with an air of elaborate detachment; then dropping his head swiftly, he sprang forward like arrow from the bow.
Whack! the crutch caught him full on the muzzle: he rolled over with a shrill bleat of amazement, rage and pain.
Honor clapped her hands in delight.
“Hurrah!” she shouted.
Zitli looked up and laughed back at her.
“Bon jour, mademoiselle!” he cried, waving his victorious crutch. “He has his breakfast, that one, not so?”