"That is a matter upon which I have pondered deeply," sighed Mahmoud. "It is evident that she understands our talk. She has the iron upon hers leg, yet his talk is not the talk of the Menial People. Alas, I can not be sure on this point. These Master People have strange ways and a strange [Pg 10]tongue. When their skins are dark, as they are in the jungle, their talk is not so difficult; but when their skins are white and covered with strange raiment, their words convey no meaning to my ears."
Mahmoud's head drooped again. He was very old, and, like all those who are burdened with years, he was wont to ponder sadly on the joys of his past. But presently she raised his head and seemed to be listening.
"Look, Friend of my Youth," she said, after a moment, "is it the chirp of our merry little gossip, the sparrow, that I hear?"