Oman looked at it—and flushed. He had a momentary impulse to tear the thong away. But the impulse passed, and it was not done. His father had not removed it. Why should he? So, without answering the girl’s exclamatory question, he turned again to the fire, and she, with great forbearance, refrained from pursuing the subject.
It was a pleasant meal,—the pleasantest, perhaps, that Oman had ever known. The girl, who gave her name as Poussa, chattered to him unrestrainedly:—of her life; of her brother-in-law, who took most of her wages, and beat her when these were too little; of the doings of the little village; and a thousand details of the people therein, that brought new warmth to Oman’s heart. In return he told her something of himself:—that he had been a weaver, but had gone to join the Bhikkhus, with whom he had now tired of living. She seemed satisfied with what he said, and they talked, comfortably, while she cleared away the remains of their meal, and then, returning, seated herself in front of him, and took his two hands and kissed them.
“See how my heart inclines to my lord. I love him,” she said, simply.
Oman started to his feet, shaking her from him violently. Then he strode to the doorway, and stood there, staring into the night, till Poussa, frightened, crept to him again, and, kneeling at his feet, timidly sought his pardon.
“Nay, Poussa, nay, there is no fault. But I must not remain with thee, for I am not of thy kind—not like other men.”
“Lord, I know it well. Thou art far above me; yet I beseech thee to remain, and I will trouble thee no more. Ah, let my lord incline himself to my forgiveness!” And so prettily did she entreat, and so weak was he with the yearning for sympathy, that, in the end, he did as she asked, and returned into the hut, where they fell to talking again.
Before he slept that night, however, Oman learned something of the personal life of his pathetic little hostess. They were still before the fire, but their talk had grown fitful and full of pauses, when, out of the blackness beyond the open door appeared a man, lean, ill shapen, but well clothed. His face was not good to look upon, and his expression made it worse. In the doorway he halted, apparently not intending to come in, after he had seen Oman. Nor did he speak; but stood still for a moment, looking hard at Poussa. Words from him were unnecessary. Oman and the girl saw him at the same moment, and she, her face instantly losing its tranquil look, sprang to her feet, and, running to the door, saluted the newcomer with profoundest respect. The man snarled some words at her, the purport of which Oman caught. They related to money—apparently a demand to see what she had earned during the day. Poussa fell upon her knees, pleading, in a low tone, that her guardian would refrain from altercation in Oman’s presence. The man seemed to accede to her request, and, after a few words more, the lowered tone of which did not lessen their ugliness, strode off again into the darkness.
Oman, relieved at the departure, looked up, prepared to find Poussa smiling again. He was disappointed. The girl finally rose from her knees and came back again. But her head was bent, and her whole attitude one of deep dejection. Indeed, by the glow of the low fire, Oman perceived that slow tears were rolling from her eyes, and that her hands were clasped as if in pain.
“Why do you weep? He is gone. You are safe,” he began, half timidly.
Poussa looked up at him with eyes full of misery. “Early to-morrow he will come again. And then—I shall be beaten. Oh, I shall be beaten!”