“No, no, little girl!” he whispered. “You--you mustn't! Really must not, you know. It's too awful!”
Up at him she looked, knowing not what to think or say for a moment. Their eyes met, there in that wrecked and riven place, lighted by the dull, misty, morning gray. Then Stern spoke, for in her gaze abode questions unnumbered.
“I'd much rather you wouldn't look out at them, not just yet,” said he, speaking very low, fearful lest the murmur of his voice might penetrate the wall. “Just what they are, frankly, there's no telling.”
“You mean--?”
“Come back into the arcade, where we'll be safer from discovery, and we can talk. Not here. Come!”
She obeyed. Together they retreated to the inner court.
“You see,” he commented, nodding at the empty water-pail, “I haven't been to the spring yet. Not very likely to get there for a while, either, unless--well, unless something pretty radical happens. I think these chaps have settled down for a good long stay in their happy hunting-ground, after the fight and the big feast. It's sort of a notion I've got, that this place, here, is some ancient, ceremonial ground of theirs.”
“You mean, on account of the tower?”
He nodded.
“Yes, if they've got any religious ideas at all, or rather superstitions, such would very likely center round the most conspicuous object in their world. Probably the spring is a regular voodoo hangout. The row, last night, must have been a sort of periodic argument to see who was going to run the show.”