“‘No,’ said he. ‘Let me see the bird.’
“‘It lies there in the cage.’
“He opened the cage door and, reaching in, removed the little body.
“‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a kos. Do you not know, my child, that birds of this species cannot long survive captivity?’
“Mara hung her head.
“‘I have heard it said,’ she answered in a low voice.
“‘To imprison wild birds is cruel,’ remarked the old bird man. ‘These birds, in particular, are the Serbs of the air. They are descended from birds that saw the field of Kossovo. They desire only to be free.’ Then, as Mara did not reply, he said: ‘Bring a light.’
“She went into the house and emerged with a lamp, placing it upon a table near the door. The old bird man sat down beside the table and, holding the bird near the light, brushed back the soft plumage of its breast, much in the manner of peasant mothers whom one sees, occasionally, searching with unpleasant suggestiveness in their children’s hair.
“‘Look,’ he said, ‘the bird would have died of these, even had it survived captivity. It is covered with animalculæ. In a cage it could not rid itself of them as nature enables free creatures to do.’
“Looking at the bird’s breast, Mara and I could see the deadly vermin.