I was not disturbed at her not replying in Spanish: she had always spoken it somewhat reluctantly, and only when at my side; but when calling to me from some distance she would return instinctively to her own mysterious language, and call to me as bird calls to bird.

I knew that she was inviting me to follow her, but I refused to move.
"Rima," I cried again, "come to me here, for I know not where to step, and cannot move until you are at my side and I can feel your hand." There came no response, and after some moments, becoming alarmed, I called to her again.
Then close by me, in a low, trembling voice, she returned: "I am here." I put out my hand and touched something soft and wet; it was her breast, and moving my hand higher up, I felt her hair, hanging now and streaming with water.

She was trembling, and I thought the rain had chilled her.
"Rima--poor child! How wet you are! How strange to meet you in such a place! Tell me, dear Rima, how did you find me ?" "I was waiting--watching--all day.

I saw you coming across the savannah, and followed at a distance through the wood." "And I had treated you so unkindly! Ah, my guardian angel, my light in the darkness, how I hate myself for giving you pain! Tell me, sweet, did you wish me to come back and live with you again ?" She made no reply.
Then, running my fingers down her arm, I took her hand in mine.

It was hot, like the hand of one in a fever.