I am in a beautiful garden, leaning against the body of the dead ostrich, a lovely girl is holding a cup of water to my parched lips, and an old man of benevolent aspect stands by her side.
“Merci mademoiselle, vous etes bien bonne,” I murmur.
“Oh, father, he speaks French.”
“This passes comprehension. Are you French, monsieur?”
“No, English.”
“English! This is stranger still. But whence come you, and who bound you on the nandu?”
“I will tell you—a little more water, I pray you, mademoiselle.”
“Let him drink again, Angela—and dash some water in his face; he is faint.”
“Le pauvre homme! See how his lips are swollen! Do you feel better, monsieur?” she asked compassionately, again putting the cup to my lips.
“Much. A thousand thanks. I can answer your question now (to the old man). I was bound on the nandu by order of the Queen of the Pachatupec Indians.”