The sunrise solved Adam’s problem. His kindness, his pity, his patience and unswerving interest, his argument and reason and entreaty, had all failed to stir Genie out of her mute misery. Nothing spiritual could save her. But Genie had another mother—nature—to whom Adam meant to appeal as a last hope.
He descended the slope to the oasis. There, near a new-made grave that ran parallel with an old one, mossy and gray, sat Genie, clamped in her wretchedness.
“Genie,” he called, sharply, intending to startle her. He did startle her. “I’m getting sick. I don’t have exercise enough. I used to walk miles every day. I must begin again.”
“Then go,” she replied.
“But I can’t leave you alone here,” he protested. “Some other bad men might come. I’m sorry. You must come with me.”
At least she was
