He proved to be--not Jacob or her father, but the old
Molimo, who stood beside her holding in his hand a gourd filled with
goat's milk. Then she sat up and smiled at him, for Benita had grown
very fond of this ancient man, who was so unlike anyone that she had
ever met.
"Greeting, Lady," he said softly, smiling back at her with his lips and
dreamy eyes, for his old face did not seem to move beneath its thousand
wrinkles. "I bring you milk. Drink; it is fresh and you need food."
So she took the gourd and drank to the last drop, for it seemed to her
that she had never tasted anything so delicious.
"Good, good," murmured the Molimo; "now you will be well again."
"Yes, I shall get well," she answered; "but oh! what of my father?"
"Fear not; he is still sick, but he will recover also. You shall see him
soon."
"I have drunk all the milk," she broke out; "there is none left for
him."
"Plenty, plenty," he answered, waving his thin hand. "There are two cups
full--one for each. We have not many she-goats down below, but the best
of their milk is saved for you."
"Tell me all that has happened, Father," and the old priest, who liked
her to call him by that name, smiled again with his eyes, and squatted
down in the corner of the tent.
"You went away, you remember that you would go, although I told you
that you must come back.
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