no need to talk

            “She can speak.  And read!”  Rydall, in his ragged tunic, hat off, hair wild around his ears, staggers into the kitchen, to an astonished Mr. and Mrs. Whyte.  The wife is horrified to see the naked girl so close to the doorstep.  “Get that -- witch away from this house!”

            “She is no witch!”  Though it is not his place to do so, Rydall pushes the garlic and the St. Benedict medals away from their place on the window sill.  “You have no need of these.  Though I have been to Italy.”  He picks up one of the garlic necklaces.  “These, I hear, are good in soup.”

            Whyte is part outraged but mostly shocked.  “Explain!” he cries.

            By now it is almost nightfall.  In the setting sun, out in the courtyard, the two men and the naked girl stand together.  Rydall does explain.  He then has the girl read from James.  Whyte’s eyes get wider and wider with amazement.

            She gets through the first chapter, stumbling, in an almost childish, musical voice.  Whyte turns away, thinking.  Then he bows his head and says a prayer.  When he turns back to face Rydall he says, “If this be witchery it is so well hid that I cannot discern it.”

            He approaches the girl and looks down at her, the wild hair, beautiful face, tanned breasts, the pages held in her rough hands, her tough bare feet oblivious to the rocky stones below.

            “Forgive me, child.”  The girl looks up with a puzzled face.

            He then asks a question, the answer to which causes Rydall to laugh.

            “Tarte -- Child, I thought you were mute.  Why did you never utter a word in my presence these two years?”

            “There never was anything that I wanted to tell you.”