“But, Ferratoni,” I said, “you do not mean to say that you understand their language.”
“Not the words. The language of thought is the same to all men. The vibration between us is by no means perfect, but when timed to the slow measure of speech, the mental echo is sufficiently good to follow his meaning.”
“Look here,” asked Gale, “can’t you twist up my strings a little? I’d like to get in key and know what’s going on, too.”
“And does he also follow your thought?” I put in.
But the youth was speaking again and Ferratoni gave him close attention. Then he interpreted.
“The conscious exchange of thought without words, he tells me, marks their advancement in communication—perhaps somewhat as the wireless interchange of words marks ours. Their progress has been along different lines it seems. The Prince and his sister, the Princess of the Lilied Hills, whose domain lies beyond this, bid us welcome. Your thought, however, he does not reach as yet, except through me, and this requires a double or repeated process, somewhat like translation.”
“Well,” muttered Gale, “I’m rather glad of that. I want to have a few thinks all to myself when I’m in a new place and seeing things.”
The Prince now said something further to Ferratoni, and then with his suite set off up the bank.
“Their boats are just above,” the latter explained. “We are to overtake them, and all proceed up the river together.”
Around a little bend we found them waiting for us. They had two barges, long, graceful and beautiful, similar to the canoe of the American Indian in shape, but propelled by slender oars in the hands of tall, youthful oarsmen of bare arms and heads, and fair, smooth faces. Near the center of each craft there was a sail of the simplest banner form, white but embroidered with the blue flower of the Prince’s domain. Truly they seemed to us as an integral part of the world about them.