A sweet perfume like the breath of roses came from it as she moved.
Her voice was soft and kind.
"Poor boy," she said, "you are wounded; some one has hurt you. What
are you doing here? You look like a little brother that I had long
ago. Come with me. I will take care of you."
The Boy rose and tried to go with her. But he was stiff and sore; he
could hardly walk; his head was swimming. The young woman beckoned
to a Nubian slave who followed her. He took the Boy in his big
black arms and so carried him to a pleasant house with a garden.
There were couches and cushions there, in a marble court around
a fountain. There were servants who brought towels and ointments.
The young woman bathed the Boy's wound and his feet. The servants
came with food, and she made him eat of the best. His eyes grew
bright again, and the color came into his cheeks. He talked to her
of his life in Nazareth, of the adventures of his first journey,
and of the way he came to be lost.
She listened to him intently, as if there were some strange charm
in his simple talk.
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