Round the sides, below, were seats, rising tier upon tier, save at one place, where was a platform or dais, upon which were raised seats with a canopy over them. Just in front of the highest seat stood a man of commanding appearance, who gazed at the prisoners with a look of keen, searching scrutiny. This man, as they afterwards learned, was the chief of whom Malto had spoken—the one who was known as Fumenta. He was dressed as plainly as his followers—indeed, more plainly than some of them; but there was that in his face, in his manner, in his very pose, which singled him out from all the rest, and proclaimed the fact that he was their leader.
That he must be old was apparent from the gray beard and the gray hair which showed beneath his head-covering—a kind of helmet. His face, too, was seamed and marked, and spoke eloquently of a life of hardship and adventure. But his tall figure was upright and stalwart, and exhibited no sign of failing strength; while his dark, piercing eyes were flashing with a fire almost as of youth.
Duralda and Landris mounted, by means of three or four steps, on to the platform, and, after a respectful salutation, conferred in a low tone with their leader. Meantime, those seated around—of whom there must have been many hundreds—ceased their talk, and gazed in silence at the prisoners.
Presently, Fumenta turned from his henchmen, and, fixing his eagle glance upon the captives, began to question them. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'And what are you doing in these parts?' His voice was sonorous, and, though stern, not unpleasing. He glanced from one to the other, as if to mark the effect of his question upon each in turn; but he evidently addressed himself more particularly to Malandris, who had been pointed out by Landris.
'We were storm-tossed travellers at the time we were captured, my lord,' Malandris answered. 'We had lost our way. Apart from that, we were fugitives fleeing from'——
Fumenta's eyes flashed and his brow grew dark.
'I want a plain answer,' he interrupted warningly. 'You—you two—wear Agrando's hated livery; you are evidently his servitors—some of his myrmidons! Woe to you if you have come here to play the part of spy for him!'
At the mention of the words 'livery' and 'servitors,' Malto had started and flushed. And now at the word 'spy' he seemed to lose control of himself. He laid a hand on Malandris, as though asking that the answering of the questions should be left to him. Then, drawing himself up, he said haughtily, 'Though we are your prisoners, sir, I fail to see why we should endure your insults without protest! It is true, alas! that I have for many years been one of Agrando's servitors—ay, even his slave, I may almost say. But I am not the first, nor the only one, of gentle birth, who has been forced by the tyrant to serve him thus. At last, however, I have escaped, and I only await the opportunity of picking up some other suit of clothes to throw off for ever what you aptly call his hated livery. If you are, indeed, as I suspect, the chief Fumenta of whom I have heard, I have no reason for fear, for I have been told of him that he is brave and just, an upright, chivalrous gentleman, though he has been sorely persecuted. I have never heard, however, that he was given to insulting his prisoners, and taunting them with having been forced to serve a hateful tyrant.'
Alondra, who had been engaged in 'taking stock,' so to speak, of everything and every one around, turned and looked at Malto in surprise. The young man had suddenly come out in a new character. He was looking his questioner squarely in the face, his eyes flashing back glance for glance, his whole attitude full of indignant protest. Yet was there in it nothing of rudeness; on the contrary, even in his defiance, there was a subtle suggestion of that deference which a young man may always pay to age without lowering his own dignity.
But what was even more noticeable was the fact that Fumenta himself appeared to be just as much taken aback as Alondra had been. To the surprise of every one there—his own people most of all—he showed no sign of anger, and the look he cast at the speaker, shrewd, searching, as it was, was free from all trace of irritation. There was a pause, while he eyed the young man from head to foot. He looked at him as if trying to read his very soul. Then, for a moment, a quick, eager expression came into his face; but it faded again instantly, he passed his hand over his forehead in a strange, dreamy way, and finally shook his head.