“Come here,” he continued. “I have some questions to ask.”
She drew a few steps nearer. A bird with breast of purple and wings of snow flew around her for a while, then settled upon her hand, and was drawn close to her bosom. He remembered, from Father Bartolomé’s reading, how the love of God once before took a bird’s form; and forthwith his piety and superstition hedged her about with sanctity. What with the white wings upon her breast, and the whiter innocency within, she was safe as if bound by walls of brass.
“Have no fear, I pray you,” he said, misinterpreting her respectful sentiment. “You and I are two people in a difficult strait, and, if I mistake not, much dependent upon each other. A God, of whom you never heard, but whom I will tell you all about, took your father away, and sent me in his stead. The road thither, I confess, has been toilsome and dreadful. Ah me, I shudder at the thought!”
He emphasized his feelings by a true Spanish shrug of the shoulders.
“This is a strange place,” he next said. “How long have you been here?”
“I cannot say.”
“Can you remember coming, and who brought you?”
“No.”
“You must have been a baby.” He looked at her with pity. “Have you never been elsewhere?”
“No, never.”