It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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