By the door of a summer-house they saw, upon stopping, a girl whose beauty was worthy the tribute she sought. The elder sat down upon a bench and replied,—
“A song is gentle medicine for sorrows. Have you such? You are very young.”
Her look of sympathy gave place to one of surprise.
“I would I were assured that minstrelsy is your proper calling.”
“You doubt it! Here is my harp: a soldier is known by his shield.”
“But I have heard your voice before,” she persisted.
“The children of Tenochtitlan, and many who are old now, have heard me sing.”
“But I am a Chalcan.”
“I have sung in Chalco.”
“May I ask your name?”