I looked at her seriously; and she comprehended the unasked questions that were troubling me.
"Shall I tell you more? Shall I tell you how I have learned my dread of men—how it has been with me since my foster parents found me lying at their door strapped to a painted cradle-board?"
"You!"
"Aye; that was my shameful beginning, so they told me afterward—long afterward. For I supposed they were my parents—till two years ago. Now shall I tell you all, Euan? And risk losing a friendship you might have given in your ignorance of me?"
Quick, hot, unconsidered words flew to my lips—so sweet and fearless were her eyes. But I only muttered:
"Tell me all."
"From the beginning, then—to scour my heart out for you! So, first and earliest my consciousness awoke to the sound of drums. I am sure of this because when I hear them it seems as though they were the first sounds that I ever heard.... And once, lately, they were like to be the last.... And next I can remember playing with a painted mask of wood, and how the paint tasted, and its odour.... Then, nothing more can I remember until I was a little child with—him I thought to be my father. I may not name him. You will understand presently why I do not."
She looked down, pulling idly at the thrums along her beaded leggins.
"I told you I was near your age—twenty. But I do not really know how old I am, I guess that I am twenty—thereabouts."
"You look sixteen; not more—except the haunting sorrow——"