"Because he understands, sir."
"Understands what, Matak?"
"He understands us, sir,—the unfortunate. Because he is lonely too, sir."
The Governor had been trying all evening to solve the strange appeal of Terry's countenance: the primitive Moro had understood. Gazing at the white youth, the Governor saw that Matak was right. The tone in which he addressed Terry was gentle, fatherly.
"Lieutenant, do you need a boy?"
The Major's quick sympathy had been enlisted: "Lieutenant, you will run your own mess down there," he interposed.
Meeting the black eyes turned upon him in confident expectation, Terry found their dull appeal irresistible.
"He may come with me," he said. "I will look after him."
Matak stood motionless a moment, then stepped to Wade and slipping to one knee pressed Wade's hand against his lips in token of gratitude and farewell. Then he rose and went silently into the house.
The Governor, the Major and Wade were busy men with large responsibilities: Terry found ample material for reverie in contemplation of what was opening up before him. The incident served to stifle further conversation. The four settled comfortably into the long rattan chairs drawn up near the railing, each content in the mere association with friends and occupied with his own problems.