Whoever they were, it was proper at this time to offer food to strangers, and if they were gods or wood spirits this was the way to find it out. The wife of Emilius the priest, a tall and gracious woman, took up a flat basket-work tray and filled it with portions of the various good things on the nearest table. By the way they took the food and ate it, she saw that they were probably only hungry boys. Pincho got the bones, but only when it was certain they were not mutton bones. He had never been allowed to find out what the flesh of a sheep was like. This was a portion of a yearling calf.
The matron’s little daughter, a straight, slender, bright-haired child, came with her, and when Pincho sniffed curiously at her little sandalled feet she did not draw back, but stooped and patted his head. The boy with the reed pipe, when he had finished his share of the food, sidled away toward the musicians, but the other one stayed where he was, his arm round the shaggy neck of the young wolf, and they asked him questions. He explained, when they were able to make out what he said—for he spoke in a thick voice as the peasants did—that he and his brother lived with a shepherd on the other [pg 62]side of the great plain. The shepherd had told them to ask whether they might let their sheep graze here awhile, until the water had gone down so that they could get back. Emilius the priest and some of the other men were there by this time, and they said that this would be allowed.
“Why do you stay away from your own village on a holiday?” asked the child straightforwardly.
“We have no village,” the boy answered. “We live by ourselves.”
The little maiden knit her straight, dark, delicate brows. People who had no village and lived by themselves had never come to her knowledge before. She thought it must be very dull not to have any holidays, or playmates.
“Do the sheep and the wolves live together in your country?” she asked, watching Pincho’s wedge-shaped, savage head as he gnawed his bone.
“No; but Pincho is not really a wolf. He is my friend.”
“How can you be friends with a wolf?” persisted the small questioner. “Wolves are thieves and murderers. They kill sheep. If they killed only the old sheep, I would not care. The old ram with horns knocks people down. But they kill the little lambs.”
“Pincho has never killed a sheep.”
“Emilia, my child,” said her mother, “it is time for the dance of the children.” And she led her little daughter away.