“Well, we’ve found one kidnapper at least,” laughed Cynthia somewhat shakily. “Shall we wake her up?” Poor little thing, she had come a long way in this heat and the clock was quite a weight for those small arms. “It is too far to carry her home,” advised the old man. The child stirred at his voice, opened one sleepy eye. Her face was pink as a seashell from the rough warmth of the old shawl beneath her. For a moment she blinked like a little owl, then recognized them and beamed, murmuring something. Monsieur chuckled and repeated it for Cynthia’s benefit. “She said the bird wouldn’t sing.” “Come on honey. Time to go home.” Cynthia’s words might not have been understood, but her brightly matter of fact tone was sufficient. Thomasina scrambled to her feet. “Here, better let me take the clock. No? All right. But let me carry the shawl, anyway. I wonder why she brought the shawl?” she puzzled. Monsieur had the suggestion that it had been one thrown over the thrush’s cage at night. “Poor kid,” murmured Cynthia. It was a long journey back. Monsieur had the two long sticks of mushrooms. Cynthia, toward the last, was so far trusted as to be allowed the clock but Thomasina kept one hand in Cynthia’s. One was to understand that she was not weary, but she wanted closer contact with her little bird. The clock itself ticked steadily throughout the journey and twice it even cuckooed. It was late and the sun was low, throwing long shadows across the road as they came down it towards the Yturbe farm. Cynthia heard the soft cooing of doves, the grunt of the little pigs that lived beneath her window. Thomasina stumbled once or twice. They neared the doorway with its seventeenth century date on the lintel. Someone inside was sobbing. “I won’t go with you.” Cynthia pushed the child forward and nodded that Monsieur Marge was to follow her. This might be--who could tell?--just the right moment for him to become a Basque again. Thomasina, the clock again in her arms, stumbled through the doorway. Cynthia heard nothing for a moment, then such a heartfelt cry of delight and joy as made her, for the second time that day, brush away the tears. Followed, in three voices, much talk in the rapid Basque tongue, and after a moment Grandmother Yturbe came out, to throw her arms about the petite Americaine. “She says,” twinkled Monsieur behind her, “that you are wonderful, that you found her little cabbage.” “Non--non. It was Monsieur,” Cynthia gestured towards her host. “It’s all right anyway, Thomasina would have come home for dinner,” protested the embarrassed Cynthia. They got away at last, but there was more to come. After dinner Cynthia and Madame were sitting beneath the vines. Madame’s fingers flew steadily as her needles ate up the gray yarn, and moonlight bright as day dripped through the dark leaves of the arbor. Someone came slowly up the stone walk and spoke in Basque. It was Thomasina’s grandfather.