Damie, however, made no reply, and stood with both hands
resting on the neck of one of the horses.
"What is it? Why don't you speak? Have you hurt yourself?"
"I have not hurt myself, but the fire has hurt me."
"What's the matter?"
"All I have is lost--all my clothes and my little bit of money! I've
nothing now but what's on my back."
"And are father's clothes burnt too?"
"Are they fireproof?" replied Damie, angrily. "Don't ask such stupid
questions!"
Barefoot was ready to cry at this ungracious reception by her brother;
but she quickly remembered, as if by intuition, that misfortune in its
first shock often makes people harsh, unkind, and quarrelsome. So she
merely said:
"Thank God that you have escaped with your life! Father's clothes--to be
sure, in those there's something lost that cannot be replaced--but
sooner or later they would have been worn out anyway."
"All your chattering will do no good," said Damie, still stroking the
horse. "Here I stand like a miserable outcast. If the horses here could
talk, they'd tell a different story. But I am born to misfortune--whatever
I do that's good, is of no use. And yet--" He could say no more; his voice
faltered.
"What has happened?"
"There are the horses, and the cows, and the oxen--not one of them was
burned. Look, that horse over there tore my shirt when I was dragging
him out of the stable.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103