"And difficult as it will be for you," said
George, "you had better come a second day if necessary, as I will, for
who can tell what might happen to make the first day impossible?"
"Then," said my father, "we shall be spared that horrible feeling that we
are parting without hope of seeing each other again. I find it hard
enough to say good-bye even now, but I do not know how I could have faced
it if you had not agreed to our meeting again."
"The day fixed upon will be our XXI. i. 3, and the hour noon as near as
may be?"
"So. Let me write it down: 'XXI. i. 3, _i.e_. our December 9, 1891, I am
to meet George at the statues, at twelve o'clock, and if he does not
come, I am to be there again on the following day.'
In like manner, George wrote down what he was to do: "XXI. i. 3, or
failing this XXI. i. 4. Statues. Noon."
"This," he said, "is a solemn covenant, is it not?"
"Yes," said my father, "and may all good omens attend it!"
The words were not out of his mouth before a mountain bird, something
like our jackdaw, but smaller and of a bluer black, flew out of the
hollow mouth of one of the statues, and with a hearty chuckle perched on
the ground at his feet, attracted doubtless by the scraps of food that
were lying about. With the fearlessness of birds in that country, it
looked up at him and George, gave another hearty chuckle, and flew back
to its statue with the largest fragment it could find.
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