this world. But, Rima, they are so far away, so impossible to reach, that it is useless to speak or to think of them. They are to us like the sun and moon and stars, to which we cannot fly. And now sit down and rest by my side, for you know everything."
She glanced at me with troubled eyes.
"Nothing do I know—nothing have you told me. Did I not say that mountains and rivers and forests are nothing? Tell me about all the people in the world. Look! there is Cuzco over there, a city like no other in the world—did you not tell me so? Of the people nothing. Are they also different from all others in the world?"
"I will tell you that if you will first answer me one question, Rima."
She drew a little nearer, curious to hear, but was silent.
"Promise that you will answer me," I persisted, and as she continued silent I added, "Shall I not ask you, then?"
"Say," she murmured.
"Why do you wish to know about the people of Cuzco?"
She flashed a look at me, then averted her face. For some moments she stood hesitating, then coming closer, touched me on the shoulder, and said softly, "Turn away, do not look at me."
I obeyed, and bending so close that I felt her warm breath on my neck, she whispered, "Are the people in Cuzco like me? Would they understand me—the things you cannot understand? Do you know?"
