The girl rose slowly and stood drooping beside me, as a flower droops for long lack of the water that gives it life.
“Sí, maestro,” she answered. “I go.”
I saw the old man hold her gaze with his glittering eyes. I realized there was about those snakelike little eyes of his an hypnotic power. The girl seemed to follow and to obey, involuntarily almost, his unspoken commands.
She laid the lute on the mantel above the fireplace, and, turning slowly back, faced the old man as he stood close beside me.
“Say good night to the gentleman,” he commanded, speaking this time in English. He spoke less harshly than before, as though by using my own language he unconsciously recognized the restraint my presence put upon him.
Then he added to me, and again the miserable, groveling whine came back to his voice:
“A foolish child, señor. You will excuse, of course.”
“Good night, señor,” said the girl.
I found myself very near to her, staring straight down into the clear, empty depths of her blue eyes. And there again I saw that look of appeal—like the patient look of a dog in pain—whispering to me, asking for my aid. As if to answer it, all the pent-up torrent of emotion within me burst forth. I swept the girl behind me with my arm and fronted the old man.
“I am going now,” I said; and with surprise I heard my voice come quiet and repressed. “I thank you, sir, for showing me your painting. The señorita here is ill. I am going to take her with me—to-night—to a hospital.”