“Did you also learn to read?” Duncan asked.
“No. My father says written words are lies, for when you read the signs you cannot read the speaker’s eyes and know that he speaks truth. The Techlas do not love the sign language, and will not have it.”
“That is foolish,” I said. “If you cannot read, you cannot know what is going on in the world.”
“And that is what we do not wish to know,” she answered, smiling. “My people say that to hear of other people is to make unhappiness. We live only our own lives; so why should we care what happens in other lives in other countries?”
It struck me there was some sense in that, if their own lives were sufficient to content them.
“What became of the white man and woman who taught you?” asked Duncan.
“After we had learned to speak their tongue my father killed them,” she answered simply.
“Not so. He promised them life if they would teach us, and they lived. But he could not promise them life for all time, because all life is uncertain.”
“Yes; having no longer need for them. They were white, and the Techlas hate all white people.”
“Because they once robbed our people and drove them from their homes.”
“Listen, Ilalah,” said Duncan, earnestly; “the white race that wronged your people was the Spanish race; but there are many whites that are not Spaniards--any more than are all Indians Techlas. So you have no reason to hate us, who are not Spanish and have never wronged you.”
“I do not hate you,” she answered, taking his hand and pressing it fondly. “I love you.”
“If I should come to rule my people,” was the slow answer, “I would command them to hate and to kill only the Spaniards. But I will never rule them, because I shall go with you to your own country, where you are the king, and help you to rule your subjects.”
I laughed at the idea, although the sentiment was so pretty. Duncan frowned at me. He did not tell the Indian maid that he was merely a bankrupt inventor, with no subjects and no wealth aside from the possession of his really wonderful machine. Why should he?
We now moved on again, following the natural ledge of rock that wound around the hill. The precipice beside it grew deeper and more dangerous as we advanced, and the ledge narrowed until often there was barely room for the machine to pass around a projection. Also the ledge sometimes inclined toward the chasm at an awkward angle that forced us to crawl cautiously along and rely upon the rubber tires to keep us from slipping off the rock entirely.