“We shall not harm you if you keep still,” he said, “and answer our questions truthfully. What village is that?”
“It is the chief city of Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka,” replied the youth. “I am Oda Iseka, his son.”
“And the large hut in the center of the village street is the palace of Oda Yorimoto?” guessed Theriere shrewdly.
“It is.”
The Frenchman was not unversed in the ways of orientals, and he guessed also that if the white girl were still alive in the village she would be in no other hut than that of the most powerful chief; but he wished to verify his deductions if possible. He knew that a direct question as to the whereabouts of the girl would call forth either a clever oriental evasion or an equally clever oriental lie.
“Does Oda Yorimoto intend slaying the white woman that was brought to his house last night?” asked Theriere.
“How should the son know the intentions of his father?” replied the boy.
“Is she still alive?” continued Theriere.
“How should I know, who was asleep when she was brought, and only heard the womenfolk this morning whispering that Oda Yorimoto had brought home a new woman the night before.”
“Could you not see her with your own eyes?” asked Theriere.