“‘To be with me?’ I asked.  And he said:  ’To be with you!  No.  My people don’t know what I do.’  I can’t tell why, but I was annoyed.  So instead of raising a clamour of pity over him, which I suppose he expected me to do, I asked him if the thrashing hurt very much.  He got up, he had a switch in his hand, and walked up to me, saying, ‘I will soon show you.’  I went stiff with fright; but instead of slashing at me he dropped down by my side and kissed me on the cheek.  Then he did it again, and by that time I was gone dead all over and he could have done what he liked with the corpse but he left off suddenly and then I came to life again and I bolted away.  Not very far.  I couldn’t leave the goats altogether.  He chased me round and about the rocks, but of course I was too quick for him in his nice town boots.  When he got tired of that game he started throwing stones.  After that he made my life very lively for me.  Sometimes he used to come on me unawares and then I had to sit still and listen to his miserable ravings, because he would catch me round the waist and hold me very tight.  And yet, I often felt inclined to laugh.  But if I caught sight of him at a distance and tried to dodge out of the way he would start stoning me into a shelter I knew of and then sit outside with a heap of stones at hand so that I daren’t show the end of my nose for hours.  He would sit there and rave and abuse me till I would burst into a crazy laugh in my hole; and then I could see him through the leaves rolling on the ground and biting his fists with rage.  Didn’t he hate me!  At the same time I was often terrified.  I am convinced now that if I had started crying he would have rushed in and perhaps strangled me there.  Then as the sun was about to set he would make me swear that I would marry him when I was grown up.  ‘Swear, you little wretched beggar,’ he would yell to me.  And I would swear.  I was hungry, and I didn’t want to be made black and blue all over with stones.  Oh, I swore ever so many times to be his wife.  Thirty times a month for two months.  I couldn’t help myself.  It was no use complaining to my sister Therese.  When I showed her my bruises and tried to tell her a little about my trouble she was quite scandalized.  She called me a sinful girl, a shameless creature.  I assure you it puzzled my head so that, between Therese my sister and Jose the boy, I lived in a state of idiocy almost.  But luckily at the end of the two months they sent him away from home for good.  Curious story to happen to a goatherd living all her days out under God’s eye, as my uncle the Cura might have said.  My sister Therese was keeping house in the Presbytery.  She’s a terrible person.”

“I have heard of your sister Therese,” I said.