"But you promised, Yasma," I insisted, determined to press my advantage.
"I didn't even know what I was promising! Why, it just never occurred to me to think of such a thing; I imagined that had all been settled long ago. Was it right to make me promise?" she contested, stanchly.
"I don't see why not," I maintained, trying to be calm. "Certainly, it's not unjust to ask you not to desert me."
"Oh, it isn't a question of injustice!" she exclaimed, with passion. "If I were starved, would it be unjust for me to want food? If I were stifling, would it be unjust to crave air? Each year when the birds fly south my people leave Sobul, not because they wish to or plan to but because they must, just as the flower must have warmth and light!"
"But do you think you alone must have warmth and light? Do I not need them too? Must I be forsaken here all winter while you go wandering away somewhere in the sunshine? Think, Yasma, I do not absolutely ask you to stay! I would not ask you to stay in such a dreary place! But take me with you, wherever you go! That is all I want!"
"But that I can never do," she replied, falling into a weary, lifeless tone. "I cannot take you with me. It is not in your nature. You can never feel the call. You are not as the Ibandru; you would not be able to follow us, any more than you can follow the wild geese."
"Then if I cannot go, at least you can remain!"
"No Ibandru has ever remained," she objected, sadly, as though to herself. "Yulada does not wish it—and Yulada knows best."
Somehow, the very mention of that sinister figure made me suddenly and unreasonably angry.
"Come, I've heard enough of Yulada!" I flared. "More than enough! Never speak of her again!" And by the wavering candlelight I could see Yasma's face distended with horror at my blasphemy.