"And how old are you, little one?" I asked.
"Fourteen--is that very old? Ah, fool, to tell my age truly--no woman
does that. Why did I not say thirteen? And I have been married six
months, such a long time! I am sure I have green, blue, yellow, grey
hairs coming out all over my head by this time. And what about my hair,
sir, you never spoke of that? Did I not let it down for you? Is it not
soft and beautiful? Tell me, sir, what about my hair?"
"In truth it is soft and beautiful, Cleta, and covers you like a dark
cloud."
"Does it not! Look, I will cover my face with it. Now I am hidden like
the moon in a cloud, and now, look, out comes the moon again! I have
a great respect for the moon. Say, holy friar, am I like the moon?"
"Say, little sweet lips, why do you call me holy friar?"
"Say first, holy friar, am I like the moon?"
"No, Cleta, you are not like the moon, though you are both married
women; you are married to Antonio--"
"Poor me!"
"And the moon is married to the sun."
"Happy moon, to be so far from him!"
"The moon is a quiet wife, but you chatter like a paroquet."
"And am I not able to be quiet also, monk? Look, I will be quiet as
the moon--not a word, not a breath." Then she threw herself back on
the poncho, feigning sleep, her arms above her head, her hair scattered
everywhere, only a tress or two half shading her flushed face and
round, heaving bosom that would not be quiet.
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