“Por cierto!—it is true! What knoweth she of my mother tongue?”
And thereupon, in the Aztecan, he asked her to help herself.
“No,” said she. “The house and all belong to you. I am glad you have come.”
“Mine? Whom do you take me for?”
“The good god of my father, to whom I say all my prayers,—Quetzal’!”
“Quetzal’, Quetzal’!” he repeated, looking steadily in her face; then, as if assured that he understood her, he took one of the goblets of chocolate, and tried to drink, but failed; the liquid had been beaten into foam.
“In the world I come from, good girl,” he said, replacing the cup, “people find need of water, which, just now, would be sweeter to my tongue than all the honey in the valley. Canst thou give me a drink?”
She arose, and answered eagerly, “Yes, at the fountain. Let us go. By this time my father is awake.”
“So, so!” he said to himself. “Her father, indeed! I have eaten his supper or dinner, according to the time of day outside, and he may not be as civil as his daughter. I will first know something about him.” And he asked, “Your father is old, is he not?”
“His beard and hair are very white. They have always been so.”