“No; he didn’t collect them. Nor is he one of the President’s men. I don’t quite understand it.”
“Who did gather them?”
“All that he will say is, ‘the master.’”
“Oh!” said Miss Brewster, and retired into a thoughtful silence.
“They’re very beautiful, aren’t they?” continued the Caracuñan. “And they carry a pretty sentiment.”
“Tell me,” commanded the girl, emerging from her reverie.
“The mountaineers say that their fragrance casts a spell which carries the thought back to the giver.”
“Is that the language of science?” she queried absently, with a thought far away.
“But no, señorita, assuredly not,” said the young Caracufian. “It is the language—permit that I say it better in French—c’est le langage d’amour.”