"Has anybody been playing a trick on me?" Barefoot asked herself. "Oh, that would be shameful! What have I done to people that they should make a fool of me? But I shall soon find out who did it—and he shall pay for it."
With clenched fists and a flaming face she stood before Coaly Mathew, who hardly raised his eyes to her—much less did he speak. As long as the sun was shining he was almost always mute, and only at night, when nobody could look into his eyes, did he like to talk, and then he spoke freely.
Barefoot gazed for a minute at the charcoal-burner's black face, and then asked impatiently:
"Where is my Damie?"
The old man shook his head. Then Barefoot asked again with a stamp of her foot:
"Is my Damie with you?"
The old man unfolded his hands and spread them right and left, implying thereby that he was not there.
"Who was it that sent to me?" asked Barefoot, still more impatiently.
"Can't you speak?"
The charcoal-burner pointed with his right thumb toward the side where a foot-path wound around the mountain.
"For Heaven's sake, do say something!" cried Barefoot, fairly weeping with indignation; "only a single word! Is my Damie here, or where is he?"